


Could Be Dangerous

by Breath4Soul



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: (ಠ‿↼), (ง'̀-'́)ง, (▀̿Ĺ̯▀̿ ̿), 221B Baker Street, Attempted Seduction, BAMF John, BAMF Sherlock, Bad boys flirting, Badass, Could Be Canon, Could be Dangerous, Cover story?, Everyone has seen a bit of touble, Falling In Love, First Meetings, Flirting, M/M, MI6 Agents, Manipulative Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson Ships It, Mrs. Hudson is more than she seems, Mycroft IS the British Government, Not the Plan, POV First Person, POV John Watson, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Reconnaissance, Sherlock Flirts, Sherlock was Actually a Badas$, Stamford is oblivious, Subterfuge, Subtext, love and war, spy games, this is going to be fun
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2018-06-03 16:07:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 40,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6617191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Breath4Soul/pseuds/Breath4Soul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>Ex-soldier John Watson knew from the very first moment he met the tall, dark haired stranger that this could be dangerous. He soon finds himself drawn into the enigmatic man's gravitational pull as the threat and mystery keeps increasing.</b><br/> </p><p><b>A story in which both John and Sherlock are true BAMFs, and everything that happened in BBC S1Ep1 still happens it is just reinterpreted in this new BAMF context.</b><br/>_______________</p><blockquote>
  <p>He moved like a predator; all grace and agility for the sake of deliberate stealth rather than for show, like a cougar sneaking up in ambush. A sauntering walk; his left arm hanging loose at his side while his fingers of his right hand worked to rebutton his absurdly expensive suit jacket. </p>
  <p>Gorgeous. Though, without a doubt, <i>deadly.</i> </p>
</blockquote>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Subtextual First Meeting

He smiles, the faintest hint of those improbable lips turning upward, and all I can think is _‘Oh, shit.’_

Some powerful force has given the kaleidescape that is my current shattered existence a slight twist and everything shifts and reassembles into a completely new and spectacularly beautiful pattern. And the point around which it all is shifting is this man before me in his posh suit; his back making an elegant curve as he leans over the microscope, and the cool tones of the lab lights play softly across prominent cheek bones. His dark curls fall over his sharply intelligent gray eyes that are tracking me. 

It is his stare that pins me to the wall, dissecting me with an intensity that is both extremely invasive yet dispassionate and remote. 

I cannot even compare that assessing gaze to the numerous visual inspections that came with military service training. Though my body naturally straightens into the appropriate posture under the scrutiny; shoulders back, chest out, spine straight, chin slightly tipped up. Relaxed but ready for anything. It is the first time since I was discharged that I feel like the weapon that I am. 

So many people in the world (lovers, friends, enemies, subordinates, commanding officers, people who put their lives in my hands, people who had taken mine in theirs) but none have ever looked at me quite like _that_. It is both exceptionally unnerving and wholly invigorating. My pulse thrums stronger in my veins. His look does that to me... or maybe it is the slight smile, as if I have been assessed and somehow found worthy. I cannot yet tell for what. 

The look lingers a breath longer, his chin drifting slightly further into the turn of his head. The corners of the eyes tightens with a hint of careful consideration, so slightly and for such a brief flicker that no one would notice it if they aren’t looking. 

_I am._

I know then that he feels what I do; that instinct stirring to alertness all the senses at the presence of a threat. _’Could be dangerous’_ now hangs unspoken in the sterile air of the small lab. 

Not a physical threat, per sé. No, though my nerves buzz and my muscles flex for action of their own volition, I do not suspect that it is my fists I will be needing. Instead, I have the acute awareness that there is a psychological battle quietly being waged just below the surface of this seemingly casual encounter. 

There is a cursory glance, the smile to himself, then he pointedly ignores me, initially addressing Stanford as if I am not even in the room. 

_A power play._

_Only the strong and confident can ignore a threat that is standing so close at hand._

He asks for Stamford's phone. Any one that knows Stamford is aware that he rarely keeps it on him. Stamford certainly is not technologically inclined enough to have a phone with text anyhow. 

Perhaps in ordinary situations this need left dangling there (to fill or ignore) would not mean much, but this is no ordinary man, so this is a test; a choice lain before me. This is a clever move that casually lobs the ball squarely into my court. I can appear oblivious to the implications and remain silent. I can pull taut the line of interest into my favor and challenge him to come to me; make him ask outright to use my phone... but I am willing to go more than halfway. I offer my phone.

A phone is one’s most private possession; a lifeline in case of emergency, holding the names and numbers of all that are dear to you and, these days, access to so much more that touches on every facet of your life. Offering it up to a stranger, one we both know that I sense is dangerous, is a significant act of trust. 

Whatever trap he is setting, whatever upper hand he is trying to gain, I am willing to be lured in, I am willing to let him have that advantage. I am all but vibrating with the promise of it. I haven’t felt so alive in ages, certainly not since returning to England.

He looks surprised at my offering. I have to wonder if he really is. _Pleased_ , certainly. A spark leaps into those eyes. Here I am, a challenge. Someone to play his game.

I don’t move to give the phone to him though. I do make him come to me for that. Firmly planted at the end of the table to bring him into my domain. It gives me a chance to observe him move in case a physical altercation does become necessary. 

He moves like a predator; all grace and agility for the sake of deliberate stealth rather than for show. A cougar sneaking up in ambush. A sauntering walk; his left arm hanging loose at his side while his fingers of his right hand work to button his absurdly expensive suit jacket. 

Gorgeous. Though, without a doubt, _deadly._

Stamford offers my name as the man comes towards me. I shoot him a look but, well meaning fellow that he is, he can't know that he is handing over one of my potential playing chips. He doesn't see the game happening beneath his languid gaze.

I have to adjust away from him as he comes to stand _a little too close_ beside me. It is meant to throw me off balance, no doubt. I'd claimed the space with an authoritative air and he has just as quickly taken it as his own. He is taller than I expected, not that that really gives him any advantage in a fight. 

I look straight ahead as his fingers dance across my phone. It is a common enough unspoken courtesy among men to not face each other when in such close proximity. Standing side by side, instead of facing each other, eases some primal tension that tells us such directness is a precursor to confrontation. Abiding that now is not an act of submission, but a sign I don't intend to press him. _Not yet._

He has something of mine, valuable and personal, but I am respecting boundaries and behaving in a manner that communicates that I am self-assured.

Perhaps it is the implied confidence in my gesture that makes him tip his hand. He wants to keep me off balance. So the next push is verbal.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

I still don't look at him. I stay still and tip my chin towards him. I keep staring ahead as I consider it.

“Sorry?” It is an even enough tone; no agitation or alarm for him to sink his teeth into.

“Which was it – Afghanistan or Iraq?” He slides his cool, blue eyes up to mine (or are the green? Tough to tell). They are completely shielded, but with a sharp, challenging heat in their depths. He turns his eyes back to my phone. He and I both know he is taking too long for a simple text message. _Reconnaissance, then._ He no doubt knows my number and my most frequent contacts by now. 

I allow it, unconcerned and aware the conversation is, at least in part, a distraction tactic. I glance at Mike to assess if he understands what this man is currently doing. His oblivious smile shows he finds this man's behaviour amusing and eccentric, nothing else.

“Afghanistan,” I respond with a faint smile. I still don't look at him, allowing him his time to gather intel on me from my phone. I am smart enough to not have anything too incriminating evident on or in the phone. I try to pull the conversation out longer to make the space for him to complete his task, “Sorry, how did you know-?”

Someone enters the door behind me, but I don't round on her. Her presence is so faint that she might as well be a ghost; timid and reproachful. No danger _there._

“Ah, Molly, coffee. Thank you,” The dark haired man says, snapping my phone shut and abruptly shoving it back in my hand as he reaches past me for a mug the mousy young woman, Molly, is now offering. 

He towers over this Molly and examines her closely, studying her face. It is difficult to discern what he sees there, but it displeases him; something he quickly tries to hide with a sip from the mug and a grimace at the flavor.

“What happened to the lipstick?” His tone is flat. His harsh words are meant to keep her off balance. For some reason he feels the need to intimidate the young lady. 

“It wasn’t working for me.” The woman smiles awkwardly. The tall, thin man is not looking at her anymore, he is stalking back to his station. There is something different in his gait now and I sense that it has something to do with what he has gathered from my phone. 

“Really? I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth’s too small now,” he says distractedly. His hand moves in a dismissive gesture. He clearly wants me to believe this woman is of no importance to him, so I take this moment, when his back is turned, to look her over carefully.

“ ... Okay,” Molly says, shifting timidly. She turns towards me briefly, her expression cautious. She fidgets with her own hands, hardly lifting her eyes to take note of me, then she turns and retreats out the door. 

The dangerous stranger seems to have come to a conclusion. He barely glances at me as he speaks.

“How do you feel about the violin?” I glance around, uncertain if I am being addressed. However, those steel eyes clearly rest on me. I narrow my gaze and look him over. 

_Is this code, then?_

“I’m sorry, what?”

The stranger looks down, typing on a laptop keyboard as he talks. “I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end.” He glances up at me. “Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.” He throws a hideously false smile at me. 

I make my expression blank for a moment as I work out if he could have somehow gathered that I am looking for a flatmate from my phone. He surely didn't have time to hack into my financials and I've only just met Stamford again, he isn't even a contact in my phone much less has there been any correspondence regarding the need for a flatmate. This man is very good... _or_ … I look across the worktop to Mike.

“Oh, _you_ ... you told him about me?” 

“Not a word,” Stamford's round face smiles back at me.

_Shit. He's that good._

I look down at myself briefly, assessing my body for tells. Finding nothing I look up at him. With a slight turn of my lips and fire in my eyes as I ask, “Then who said anything about flatmates?”

A smile flickers across his lips, absurdly plump as they are for any man. He sees that I am pleased at his acumen and intrigued by the challenge. 

He looks down in an attempt to hide his own thrill at this new game. He picks up his greatcoat, sweeping it around himself to put it on.

“I did.” He pauses just long enough to make it clear that there is an offer there. Then he continues on, conversationally, as he straightens his coat. “Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is, just after lunch, with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn’t that difficult a leap.”

I duck my head a moment, scorning myself for confirming what obviously had just been a hypothesis; conjecture from circumstances. That was an amature mistake.

His faint smile confirms that he is aware of this folly, and is happy to reveal to me how I have gotten slow and gone dull in my time recovering.

He seems to be preparing to leave but I am enjoying myself far too much to let him saunter off so quickly.

“How did you know about Afghanistan?” I ask, hoping to continue the engagement. The brunet ignores the question, wrapping his scarf around his long, thin neck. He picks up his mobile in one hand and checks it; being obvious in revealing to me his own ruse of needing _my_ mobile. He wants me to feel the imbalance of power in this moment, he holds all my truths and has given up _nothing_ thus far. He is obviously winning at this little game.

“Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it.” He smiles faintly as he walks towards me, but his eyes are challenging, asking if I am up for it. Doubting me. I allow my own eyes to darken in that menacing way that I keep hidden from most, and I nod subtly. He steps close to me, his perceptive eyes taking me in and weighing me again for a brief second. Then he tips his chin in a subtle way as if to say, _'we shall see.'_

“We’ll meet there tomorrow evening; seven o’clock. Sorry – gotta dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary." He flashes another fake smile, this time faintly wicked, and shoves his phone into the inside pocket of his coat. He brushes past me and I follow him with my eyes as he moves to the only exit. He hesitates before I even speak, hand resting on the knob, awaiting my counter-attack.

“Is that it?” My voice is harsh and choppy. I am irritated and the demanding edge is seeping in. We can hardly continue this game if he gives me absolutely nothing to work with.

He almost does a full circle as he spins a wide arc from the door to me, trying to lessen his proximity to me. I can tell he is about to do something confrontational and he is concerned my response might be physical. 

“Is that what?” His eyes still clearly hold that challenge as he leans towards me from his awkwardly distant position. He knows I am pushing for him to tip his full hand, to show me what I am agreeing to go up against.

“We’ve only just met and we’re gonna go and look at a flat?” 

“Problem?” His smile says he knows I am hooked. Perhaps daring me to work the rest out, which will give some indication of my resources. I smile back. I'm not going to make it that easy for him to suss me out. If he wants me in this game as much as I suspect he does, he'll give me more. I have leverage here, so long as he is as deep undercover as I think he is. 

I glance at Mike, who most assuredly does _not_ know what this stranger really is. The oblivious professor is my playing chip. In front of him, the brunet has to reveal some things that he might otherwise withhold or he strengthens my ability to expose him. I raise my eyebrows at the stranger and the man's lips thin as he presses them together in a stifled grimace.

“We don’t know a thing about each other; I don’t know where we’re meeting; I don’t even know your name,” I remind him. He examines me closely for a moment before speaking. Perhaps, considering the display of mental prowess he wants to put on to ensure my continued engagement balanced against what he can reasonably reveal in front of Stamford.

“I know you’re an Army doctor and you’ve been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you’ve got a brother who’s worried about you but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him – possibly because he’s an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp’s psychosomatic – quite correctly, I’m afraid.” 

I glance down at myself and shuffle my weight onto my bad leg. Surprisingly, I had forgotten all about it until that very moment and right now it is not hurting at all.

“That’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think?” The brunet stares at me with a smug smile on his lips and that heat in his eyes. My insides do several flips as I stare back at him as blankly as I can manage. 

_He's definitely good. This will be fun._

The silver-eyed man turns and walks to the door again, opening it and going through. 

Just as I conclude that he’d gone and I begin to relax my posture, he pokes his head back into the room.

“The name’s Sherlock Holmes and the address is two two one B Baker Street.” He clicks his tongue as he winks at me flirtatiously. I am alarmed to feel other parts of myself stir to respond to _that_ challenge as well. 

He then looks round at Mike “Afternoon,” he says with false politeness. His stare rakes over me swiftly. I can't doubt that he is fully aware what he just did to me. 

__

_Bastard._

I tightened my jaw.

He disappears again and I stand there a moment, stunned. Every part of me buzzes with the thrill of the encounter. I slowly turn to look at Mike.

“Yeah, he's always that way,” my old mate says lightly.

_Christ, I hope so._


	2. 221B: Deep Cover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a thrilling first meeting, John Watson does some research on Sherlock Holmes and goes forward with meeting him at 221B at the appointed time. The mystery of who Sherlock is, what he does and who he works for deepens. All this is wrapped in the very important question of and why he wants John as a flatmate. 
> 
>  
> 
> _Still working in Canon here._

I don't waste any time once I return to the privacy of my drab little bedsit. The grim light of late evening pours in through the curtains as I perch on my bed and retrieve my mobile from my jacket. I flick through the menu to find the _Messages Sent_ file. The last message reads:

>   
>  If brother has green ladder  
>  arrest brother.  
>  -SH  
> 

I consider this a moment; cradling the phone in my hand, contemplating the long, thin fingers that were curled around it so briefly a little over an hour ago. I consider what those sharply perceptive eyes saw as they pried into my life, such as it currently is, and what this obviously coded message could possibly mean.

 _’Arrest’_ would imply this was sent to someone with official authority to take such an action. Law enforcement of some kind, perhaps? Though, from what I have observed thus far he is skilled, clever and very careful... so he would have anticipated me reading this. That, and the potential of it being intercepted would necessitate some sort of code. 

_Used me; like a goddamn burner phone. Shit. Hope I don't have to bin this. Harry will ask after it._

I narrow my eyes, holding in an irritated scoff. There is no telling who he contacted and what he ordered them to do, but the fact that he didn't bother to cover his tracks must be part of his game with me.

I move to my laptop. Time to level the playing field a bit and find out who this _Sherlock Holmes_ really is. I code into the Quest records engine. Haven't done that since I was discharged. But needs must...  


________________

I take the long way round to our meeting place; a smallish flat next to a restaurant. I casually watch the building’s comings and goings for enough time to determine that the overt threat level is low. I also mentally catalog its potential exits and escape routes. 

I can tell he has not yet entered and time my arrival at the front door to perfectly coincide with a cab pulling up, which I can only assume is his.

“Ah, Mr. Holmes.” I offer my hand as he turns back towards me from the cab he has just paid.

“Sherlock, please,” he instructs tipping his head slightly as he takes my hand in his. Here is our first direct physical contact and I must admire his determination to give me nothing. From my bare palm against his I could have discerned his weapon preference; the callouses of a knife wielder distinctly different than those of a man that prefers a gun. Instead, soft leather gloves give way under the pressure of my grip. I purposely keep the clasp firm and brief; non-aggressive. This is hardly the time or place to feel out his strength or demonstrate mine. I smile tightly at him. A handshake holds the traditional purpose of demonstrating a lack of weaponry, but we both know that is hardly the case here.

“Well, this is a prime spot. Must be expensive,” I remark conversationally. I can tell from the substantial cost of his outfit that money is unlikely a concern for him; the coat alone worth enough to pay my bedsit for three months. He in no way needs my meager contribution on such an undertaking. He smiles faintly; almost like approval of my perceptiveness.

“Oh, Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, she’s giving me a special deal. Owes me a favour,” He says upholding my supposition that he hardly needs me for a share in rent. Which certainly begs the question, _what does he intend me for_? 

“A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out,” he continues. As he talks he scans the pavement and street with a practiced vigilance and I take the opportunity to examine him more thoroughly beneath the natural light. 

He is rather gaunt; underweight by perhaps a stone. This could indicate he recently returned from some sort of less than ideal assignment. In spite of this, or perhaps because of it, I've no doubt he is formidable in a fight. No man fights quite as viciously as the man that has seen hunger and desperation and been nearly broken at the hands of an enemy. 

He keeps his hands clutched behind himself at the small of his back in a military parade rest fashion, but I don't read military on him. There is clearly some tactical training there but if I had to guess I would say it is more in the mixed martial arts area. I can see that in the grace yet precision of his movements. Special forces, perhaps. MI5 seems more likely. 

My mind and body thrill at the thought of finding out first hand what fighting him might be like. It has been far too long since I've had a good row and no one half as formidable as I reckon him to be.

He is impeccably dressed, his appearance meticulously maintained, however his coat is unbuttoned, which leads me to believe he keeps his weapon of choice in its folds and it remains open in my presence for convenience of access. 

He steps towards me as he speaks and he shifts his weight ever so subtly from foot to foot, allowing him to be ready to either deal or receive a blow without losing balance. He appears calm on the surface but he is most certainly ready to spring into action. 

“Sorry – you stopped her husband being executed?” I tilt my chin down and look up at him wondering what exactly he is admitting to here on the street within earshot of any curious onlookers. I pointedly do not look at the CCTV cameras I know to be present on the street.

“Oh no. I ensured it,” he says pitching his voice into a lower and deeper tone. He flashes a false smile that makes his lips a thin straight line and there's that glint of darkness in his eyes that makes me wonder _how exactly_ and to what degree was he personally engaged in ensuring that man's _execution._

I feel my spine stiffen at the hint of threat and I look around cautiously as the door opens and he begins conversing with an elderly lady in the entrance. He embraces her briefly as she coos at him and it all seems a bit showy to me; like a cover. Yet I let her reach for me and place a hand at my shoulder as Sherlock presents me to her. 

She ushers me inside, pointedly looking me over the moment I step into the shadowed entryway and I am certain there is more to _that_. The picture of a sweet old lady in her frumpy dark purple dress yet I sense she's known _a bit of trouble._

Sherlock trots up the stairs to the first floor landing; nimble on his long legs, spine perfectly straight and poised while his unruly black hair bounces in odd contrast. At any efforts at blending in with the drab, gray world of London, he is most certainly failing miserably. He pauses and waits for me to hobble up to him; the narrow steps and my slightly oversized cane making it rather more difficult than it should be. 

As I approach, his stare sweeps over me from my feet up until he meets my eyes with an edge of intrigue and quiet contemplation. A faint smile pulls at his lips, real only in the sense that it is for himself, a hint at his internal workings, and he nods as if he has decided something. _What,_ I can't be sure, but my instinct for danger bristles with the sense that he will be testing me again, very soon. 

I grip my cane tighter, prepared to use it in whatever means necessary. If there can be any advantage to my current state it's that my cane permits me to constantly be in possession of an innocuous appearing object that can both deflect and deliver hits, a theory I have already been forced to test on a would be mugger. There is something to be said for walking softly and carrying a big stick.

As I reach the top of the stairs, Sherlock opens the door ahead of himself, quickly and efficiently so he only briefly turns his back to me before he is backing into the space, watching my expression as he retreats off to my left revealing the sitting room of the flat. 

I keep my expression neutral as I let my eyes run over the clutter of possessions already populating every corner of the room. There is a hodgepodge of mismatched furniture, and scattered across nearly every surface there are trinkets, scientific equipment, files and boxes of papers. This is not a _sitting room_ , this is a _war room_. It is topped off with macabre decorations; a dead bat pinned like a scientific specimen under glass, a poisonous mushroom print, a bison skull with aviator headphones, a painting of a human skull, some .50 calibre Browning Machine Gun cartridges. I take note of several potential weapons and files clearly marked confidential. 

It has a careful randomness to it that gives me the feeling in my gut that it is staged. Danger and intrigue, all blatantly and rather enticingly on display. This is the equivalent of building a house made of candy to lure in some starving children. He has arranged this to intrigue me, to tempt me and I can appreciate the effort, even if I don't understand it. 

“Well, this could be very nice. Very nice indeed,” I say as I turn around. I cast him a look, but he is pointedly not meeting my gaze as his eyes still scan the room thoughtfully. 

I take a step towards him where he stands in the kitchen and he moves back with a habitual dodging movement, one shoulder swiftly dipping back and away - yes, definitely trained. Krav Maga maybe, Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu would be fun, those knees and elbows would be brutal if it's Muay Thai. 

“Yes. Yes, I think so. My thoughts precisely,” he says thoughtfully continuing to avoid looking at me. Staged as it is, I can still tell he has been living here weeks, if not longer, which of course negates the premise he set forth in the lab of _‘having his eye on’_ this place and needing help with the rent to move in. I decide to call him out on this. 

“Soon as we get all this rubbish cleaned out,” I offer raising my eyebrows, but he is talking over me, offering another version of the truth lest he have to play along with a ruse of disposing all his own possessions as if a previous tenant left them. 

“So I went straight ahead and moved in...” 

“Oh.” I smile. “So this is all…” I drawl. I tip my head for a moment as I reassess the situation I now find myself in. 

Ella, my therapist, would no doubt call me paranoid but the odd notion flickers at the back of my mind that perhaps we did not meet by a crazy, random happenstance, but instead this is all a cleverly orchestrated trap or set up. I move a step back to ensure my back is to the wall and no one can attack me from behind. My hand flexes at my side, itching to have my gun in it.

“Well, obviously I can... um… straighten things up a bit.” He continues to casually avoid eye contact as he walks across the room and makes a half-hearted attempt to tidy up a little; throwing a couple of folders into a box and then taking some (apparently unopened) envelopes across to the fireplace where he puts them onto the mantelpiece and then stabs a multi-tool knife into them. 

_'Knife wielder, then?'_ I think as I let my eyes linger on the unopened correspondence pinned to the wood. I find it easy to imagine the flash of metal and flex of body as his tall, lean form moves swiftly and elegantly in an exquisitely dangerous dance of slices and thrusts. 

My eyes fall on a human skull sitting, quite obviously, on display like a trophy on the mantelpiece next to where he has just stabbed. There is no doubt that it is real and definitely human. I lift my cane to point at it.

“That’s a skull.” 

“Friend of mine,” his eyes are dark and his smile is dangerous as he looks down. “Well, when I say _‘friend’_ …”

The landlady, Mrs. Hudson, appears now and as a precaution I angle my body towards her without acknowledging her presence. She picks up a cup and saucer and moves towards the kitchen. Sherlock tracks her with his eyes as well while he takes off his greatcoat and scarf.

“What do you think, then, Doctor Watson? There’s another bedroom upstairs if you’ll be needing two bedrooms,” she says casually. My eyes flick over her, trying to understand her relationship to this intriguing young man. 

She obviously knows something of what he is capable of and the way she looked at me in those first moments said she saw something of my own capabilities, yet here she is trying to imply this is a romantic relationship. I have no idea what _this_ is but I am fairly certain it is not _that._

“Of course we’ll be needing two,” I say slowly. Sherlock is not looking at me or this older woman whom he is well acquainted with, which is somewhat telling. 

My mind flashes back to the wink from the doorway at Bart’s and that knowing smile. For a brief second I reconsider if that is what this is all about, but quickly dismiss it. He obviously could have nearly anyone he wanted in that department. One doesn't go to such pains and seek out a dangerous, if injured, veteran as a live-in shag.

“Oh, don’t worry; there’s all sorts round here,” Mrs. Hudson persists with a glint in her eyes. She, drops her voice to a whisper by the end of the sentence. “Mrs Turner next door’s got married ones.” I squint at her a moment and try to discern her meaning and intentions. Is this to be a cover then? Surely they could find a better, more believable false cover story than in _me_.

I fix my eyes to Sherlock with the kind of stare I know he can feel. His shoulders shift slightly, almost as if he would like to shrug off my gaze, but he does not turn towards me. I expect him to confirm for this acquaintance of his that we are not involved in _that way_ but he appears oblivious to what’s being insinuated, refusing to deny it yet again. 

I tip my head and try to process this. Solicited by a well-off, posh and clearly dangerous man to join him in sharing a rather cozy flat with a landlady that has obviously had some criminal dealings and is heavily implying Sherlock and I are to engage in an intimate relationship. Not an ideal operation for me, that, playing at being domestic partner to some operative. I don't even favor blokes personally, not that the cover needs to go that far, but there needs to be an element of believability for the casual (or less casual) onlooker. Hardly the best use of my skills either. 

It can't exactly be an above the board operation if they are pulling me into it this way. There is obviously some choice for me in doing this. 

Mrs Hudson walks across to the kitchen, then turns back and frowns at her tenant. “Oh, Sherlock. The mess you’ve made,” She frets as she moves towards the table and starts tidying up. I am struck by the desire to laugh at this little exchange. I don't get the impression that her mothering of him is all a show for my sake, and it seems a bit absurd to cojel and coo over such a clearly capable and dangerous individual. 

I walk over to one of the two armchairs. The more comfortable of the two faces away from the doorway, but affords me the ability to watch the room; its primary occupant requiring my fullest attention. I plump up the union jack pillow there and then drop heavily down into it. I watch Sherlock, who is still tidying up a little, considering how to proceed. He moves to the desk now, opening a laptop and I decide to start there.

“I looked you up on the internet last night,” I say with a grim smile. Now that was an interesting bit of research; more so for what it did _not_ say than what it did. There were significant gaps in the Quest database and what was there had all the tell-tale signs of being somewhat contrived. This leaves me with the certainty that whatever he is, whomever he truly works for, its above my clearance level. 

He turns towards me, making eye contact for the first time since we entered the flat. He places his hand in his pocket and angles his body slightly away from me, I presume towards a weapon he can easily fetch since he no longer has his coat. 

“Anything interesting?” He asks casually. I pause a moment, weighing my words.

“Found your website, _'The Science of Deduction'._ ” It was tough to tell if it was a tradesman’s site (to advertise and sell his skill to interested parties) or a platform for coded communications. Knowing this would certainly go a long ways towards understanding what I am considering here. He certainly has the brains of some sort of analyst from what I can tell, but everything else about him points to something more... _hands-on_. His lips turn up in a smile. 

“What did you think?” he inquires confidently, perhaps proudly. He twists a little as if torn between two actions or an appropriate emotion to put on in such a situation.

I put on a doubtful expression, pulling back in my chair. I am surprised to watch his face crumple; a little flicker of genuine hurt sweeping over his eyes and in the way he holds his mouth. It's like a cloud passing over the sun.

_Christ he looks young. He can't have been doing this long._

“You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb,” I drawl. It sounds absurd, but quite a skill to have _if it is true._

His eyes glass over as he straightens his spine, looking down at me. “Yes; and I can read your military career in your face and your leg, and your brother’s drinking habits in your mobile phone.” I tighten my jaw, still a little upset with myself for giving that much away _somehow_... although... if I was scouted for this operation beforehand, then they could have easily fed him my information. 

“How?” I challenge with a small shake of my head. He smiles faintly and turns away. Still playing that close to the vest it seems.

“What about these suicides then, Sherlock?” Mrs. Hudson calls from behind me, holding the paper in her hands as she steps closer. “I thought that'd be right up your street. Three exactly the same,” she continues.

I narrow my eyes on the back of the dark, lean figure cut against the afternoon glow from the windows as I try to parse the meaning of three suicides being _‘up this man’s street’_ , Sherlock steps closer to the window and the red and blue lights of a police car begin to play across his face and the curtains. I stiffen.

“Four. There's been a fourth,” he says distractedly looking down at the street. “And there's something different this time.” He turns a little more towards me and I feel the tension in him increase. I get the impression he is not yet comfortable with me seeing what is about to occur next and this makes me shift in my chair and grip my cane; preparing for a fight.

“A fourth?” Mrs. Hudson queries thoughtfully.

I hear the heavy, hurried footsteps on the stairs and twist around in my seat to see who is approaching.

“Where?” Sherlock asks a second before a man bursts into the sitting room, eyes fixed on Sherlock. He is about my height, his hair is black with hints of silver and I would take him to be ten years my senior. By his bearing he is used to a certain amount of authority and is competent in a fight. He is wearing a suit and a long coat. The moment he is in the room, his demeanor relaxes a little, his right hand slipping into the pockets of his trousers with a kind of uneasy submission as he settles into a comfortable stance. He is obviously familiar with both the environment and Sherlock. So much so I am quite certain he is not even aware that I or Mrs. Hudson are in the room. Obviously not an agent then.

“Brixton, Lauriston Gardens,” he replies breathlessly.

Sherlock’s body language has shifted. His hands are in his pocket but his shoulders have fallen back as he faces me, glancing between the window and the man that has entered only occasionally, but mostly keeping his eyes on the chair across from me. 

“What's new about this one? You wouldn't have come to me otherwise.”

“You know how they never leave notes?"

“Yeah.” 

“This one did. Will you come?” 

I tip my head, watching Sherlock carefully. There is an interesting tension between these two men. Sherlock obviously has a dominant role, yet the way he holds himself does not speak of confidence, instead it is a sort of guarded wariness. I must assume this serves a purpose. I feel Sherlock shift his weight towards me, his eyes sweeping over me, and I know I am meant to pay attention.

“Who's on forensics?” Sherlock demands. 

“Anderson,” the older man replies with a bit of a sigh in his voice. Sherlock visibly winces. 

“He doesn't work well with me,” he states, bristling. 

“Well, he won't be your assistant,” the older man retorts in annoyance.

“I _need_ an assistant,” Sherlock insists. I blink. My tongue comes out to touch my lips as I process this. Suicides. Forensics. There has been a death. A crime. An investigation. Sherlock is requested to come by this man, obviously arriving in a police vehicle. Sherlock's eyes keep flicking to me, as if considering something to do with me and I have no idea what connection this has to me.

“Will you come?” the older man tips his head towards Sherlock, but his voice has an edge of annoyance and demand to it. The authority is clearly there, and this only solidifies my certainty that his profession has something to do with law enforcement. Though the suit seems to indicate detective work, with that tone of voice I suddenly have no trouble imagining him interrogating a suspect. Sherlock, of course, is not intimidated, but he turns his head to look out the window. 

“Not in a police car, I'll be right behind,” he concedes.

“Thank you,” the older man says with a small bow from the waist. He turns towards me and Mrs. Hudson as he pivots to leave, but says nothing. I study Mrs. Hudson, who has her arms crossed, seemingly unperturbed by this unusual exchange. I return my eyes quickly to Sherlock who has his head bowed, his eyes fixed on the floor with a small smile playing across his lips. It grows larger and then quite suddenly he turns and leaps into the air, his fists clenched. 

“Brilliant! Yes!” He does an overly dramatic gesture of excitement that seems ridiculous for anything outside of cinema and then spins some circles as if too thrilled to possibly possess any control over himself. “Four serial suicides, and now a note. Oh, it's Christmas.” 

He snatches up his coat and starts putting it on as he moves past me and Mrs. Hudson to the kitchen. “Mrs Hudson, I'll be late. Might need some food,” he states. I twist in my chair to watch him slipping back into his coat. He is bursting with vivacity, radiating an uncontainable energy that surely must be the most genuine glimpse of him I have seen thus far.

“I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper,” she replies with only slight annoyance. 

“Something cold will do,” he insists. His eyes land back on me and widen slightly, almost as if he had forgotten me altogether.

“John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don't wait up!” The tone in his voice on his last sentence has such a patronizing edge that my teeth grind in irritation. Then he is gone. The room seems emptier without his presence, like the life has been sucked from it. I felt it when he left the lab too. The battle of wits, the awareness of constant danger, the push and pull and deadly dance is invigorating and in its absence all the world looks dull.

“Look at him, dashing about... my husband was just the same. But you're more the sitting-down type, I can tell,” Mrs. Hudson drawls and I wonder if it is meant to be as slyly pointed as it feels. This has been the most interesting thing that has happened to me since I was invalided home, but I am certainly not on for just sitting back and watching his utter thrill at being part of the action while I play at being his domestic partner. “I'll make you that cuppa, you rest your leg,” she says too gently and with too much pity to stomach. The anger in me rises up to overtake the growing sense of impotence.

“Damn my leg!” I roar. The landlady's skittish jump makes me reign my fury back in. Yes, she has definitely seen some trouble, I think. “Sorry, I'm so sorry,” I say softly, in an appeasing tone. “It's just sometimes...” I hit my cane against the useless nerves and muscles that find me hobbling around like a worthless invalid while my skills waste into futility. “This bloody thing…” I finish in frustration.

She pauses, placing a hand on her waist. “I understand, dear, I've got a hip.” My aggravation stays boiling there below the surface, but I turn and pick up the paper, trying to gather my thoughts.

“Cup of tea'd be lovely. Thank you,” I say.

“Just this once, dear, I'm not your housekeeper,” she admonishes, but I have already seen the way this game plays out between her and Sherlock.

“Couple of biscuits too, if you've got 'em,” I add, perhaps feeling a bit of satisfaction in countering her needling of my obvious sore spots with this ignoring of her objections.

“Not your housekeeper!” she insists. I scoff. _Not a bloody landlady_ from what I can tell either. I turn the paper over in my hand and am quite surprised to see a picture of the bloke that just came barging into the sitting room begging for Sherlock's assistance staring back at me from the page. _’DI Greg Lestrade’_ the picture’s caption says. I sit back, contemplating everything I have learned. 

There is an assignment here, but it is not ideal. It is apparently a passive role to whatever operation is centrally occurring. That typically means all the danger and none of the fun.

“You're a doctor. In fact, you're an Army doctor,” the silky smooth baritone drifts into the room, before the tall, dark figure of Sherlock re-emerges. 

_And if that isn’t the voice of the devil seducing you, I don’t know what is._

I look over at him setting down the paper immediately. He is moving slowly, like a predator again, pulling on his gloves and looking at me out of the corner of his eyes. I rise to my feet.

“Yes,” I sharpen my eyes on him and clear my throat. That tension and thrill of danger immediately comes back into me and my whole body is at attention, tingling with anticipation.

“Any good?

“Very good.” I reply without a moment's hesitation. If he is half as good as I suspect, he can already see this about me. I doubt he would suffer my company as far as he already has if he did not assess me as competent.

“Seen a lot of injuries, then. Violent deaths.” It is a statement, but a pointed one. He is walking towards me now, crowding my space, but I don’t back down. His eyes flick to my neck and I know he can see my quickening pulse. He is looking into my eyes and seeing my pupils dilate as the predator comes over me at the mention of blood and violence. He smiles faintly, something almost self-congratulatory in the twist of it. 

“Well, yes,” I say neutrally, though I know my body is giving all the other tells away.

“Bit of trouble too, I bet?” His dark smile tells me that trouble is a pleasure of his and that whatever he is getting at will not be playing by the rules. I can’t help but wonder if whatever he is about to do was never part of the plan for me. There is something conspiratorial about his tone.

“Of course. Yes. Enough for a lifetime, far too much.” I glance down, knowing that this is an appropriate response, but cluing him in that it is a blatant lie. He smiles, moving marginally closer, and I can see this is indeed an act of trust. He is not stepping into my space to claim it this time, to force me into submission, he is welcoming the fight, issuing a challenge. I puff out my chest a little and make my spine rigid, but stay otherwise still for the breath it takes for him to look me in the eyes and weigh me again. The risk versus the reward. The thrill of the battle versus the chance of defeat. His cool blue eyes darken a measure, dilating to match my own. 

“Want to see some more?” His tone is slightly breathier.

“Oh, God, yes,” I say without reservation and am rewarded with a flash of a smile as he whirls away. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, feeling like I just passed a very important test. Relief and excitement flood over me as I move to follow.

“Sorry Mrs. Hudson, I'll skip the tea. Off out,” I call.

“Both of you?” She sounds troubled and annoyed. I take note of this.

“Impossible suicides? Four of them? No point sitting at home when there's finally something _fun_ going on!” Sherlock says, gathering the older woman up in an embrace that she awkwardly resists and planting an almost violently aggressive kiss on her cheek that she flinches at. She appears startled as he spins away. I wonder what that gesture means as she stares after him stunned. 

There is something more in her words, a bit of warning as she says, “Look at you, all happy. It's not _decent._ ” She shoots me a loaded look as I offer her a smile and I wonder what trouble Sherlock is facing for this apparent change in the plans.

“Who cares about decent?” Sherlock grumbles in obvious defiance as he moves to the door. “The game, Mrs. Hudson, is on!” 

And suddenly we were out on the street again; the exhilaration of danger and the anticipation of violence buzzing along my nerves as we slide into a taxi side by side


	3. Mutually Assured Destruction

I feel it tingle across my skin and curl through my gut the moment I slide into the cab next to him. Something has changed. A different tension thrums like a low pulse, heavy and vibrant, shifting the air between us. My eyes snap from the world outside to the interior of the cab, to Sherlock and back again as I seek to identify the source of my internal alarm.

My eyes slip to the lean man at my side as I hold myself very still; muscles flexed, fingers curled tightly around my cane, trying to pin down the threat. The energy emanating off of Sherlock is tense; a bow pulled taut, perched and ready to launch its deadly assault. I watch him out of the corner of my eye, keenly aware of his physical presence within the limited space of the cab. My mind plays through likely fight sequences.

_Cane to deflect his jab with knife. Palm strike from below to nose or jab fingers into eyes. Open door. Kick off. Tuck and roll._

His face is forcibly blanked, the picture of neutrality, as his nimble fingers quickly tap at his phone. His features are pale and ghastly, lit by his phone in the failing evening light. There is the slightest gathering of tension in the corners of his lightly pursed mouth and a fierce glint to his eyes. 

I quickly realize his vehemence is no longer aimed at me… and somehow that makes me even more _uncomfortable_. Inherent in his presence from that first moment was always an almost tangible element of danger, but now I get a sense of an unspoken mutual peril, like a threatening presence forming and hovering over the both of us in dark roiling clouds. 

_Who does an alpha predator fear?_

My glances start to linger on Sherlock and become more demanding as the silence stretches and we hurtle towards unknown dangers. I pointedly look at the screen of the phone in his hands as an odd text pops up.

> Do remember Redbeard, Sherlock.

Sherlock’s head pulls back, eyes still on the screen as if he has been physically struck by the words before him. His gaze slides sideways to me as his lips flatten into something resembling irritation.

He turns his head towards me and I look out the window so he can't read my expression, can't be sure what I saw - not that the coded words mean anything to me at the moment. But they mean something to _him_ , so it benefits me to hold onto any bit of information I can get. He takes a deep breath as he lowers his phone. Looking straight ahead as he speaks, “Okay, you’ve got questions.” 

I blink, pausing for only a breath to readjust to the change in tactics. This is a direct, straightforward invitation backed up by a subtle shift in body language. A slight turn towards me, his shoulders falling back in a way that opens his chest to a frontal assault. For anyone else I might consider it an unintentional lapse in their defenses, but he is far too careful for that. 

_Purposeful vulnerability?_

I quickly seize the opportunity.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“Crime scene. Next?” His reply is short and impatient, as if the answer was obvious. Which, given the conversation at the flat and the ample clue he left me on my phone, I suppose it should be, but that was not exactly the intent of my question and I am sure he knows it.

I stare at him a moment longer, letting my gaze harden. If I read his slight shift in his demeanor correctly then whomever he just had a very tense confrontation with over text represents a mutual enemy. If that is the case then there is gravity to the impulsive choice we both just made; this is binding. We’ve essentially thrown in our lot together. I've just taken on his enemies. He owes me a little more information. 

_'Mutually assured destruction,’_ flashes behind my eyes as I blink again.

The question I want to ask but can't in this environment hangs in the air between us. _‘Is where we are heading where the threat is?’_

I follow Sherlock’s pointed stare to the back of the head of the cabbie and understand the unspoken allusion. There are things I want to know, things he may want to tell me but this location is hardly secure for such conversations. He tips his head down and his hand on his lap flicks dismissively. It could be brushing away lint, but I know him to be so deliberate and controlled in his movement that I understand the intended meaning. Whatever that danger that now appears to be stalking us, it will not likely be lying in wait at this crime scene. 

I rock my head forward and backward subtly with the movements of the cab, indicating my comprehension, as I glance out the window at the passing world. 

“Who are you? What do you do?” I inquire, knowing I am pressing my luck in this venue, but I at least want to understand the cover story instead of walking into this blind. A smile pulls at his lips. 

“What do you think?” Sherlock drawls. I glance at the cabbie; narrowing my eyes slightly. I can tell by the tip of his head that the man is listening to us.

“I’d say private detective…”

“But?” He lifts his eyebrows at me, as if encouraging me to go on. I glance at the cabbie again.

“... but the police don’t go to private detectives,” I say slowly. He nods ever so slightly, a small smile, like approval, pulling at his lips. His pinky finger and thumb tuck under his palm resting on his leg making the military hand signal for 6. I blank my face and blink back my surprise. 

_MI6, then?_ Secret Intelligence Service. What is an espionage agent who should be fighting global terrorism on foreign soil doing in a flat in London working with law enforcement on murder cases? 

And why the hell does he need me?

“I’m a consulting detective. Only one in the world. I invented the job.” My brow draws down in a slight furrow as I look up at him. One does not go undercover by making up imaginary jobs. The whole point is to _blend in_ , but everything about this man stands out like a sore thumb. I swallow around a bad feeling rising in my chest to my throat and speak carefully.

“What does that mean?”

“It means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me.” I can’t help scoffing a little at this as I look at him, amusement leaking onto my face at the absurdity of the ruse.

“The police don’t consult amateurs,” I say looking over at him. We both know he is far from that, but surely he can't be putting his skill out there on display? Playing at being a civilian that possesses such an extraordinary talent that the police would employ him outside of natural partnerships is just ridiculous. The kind of attention that would attract is suicide. Sherlock throws me a look that says that is exactly what he is doing.

My mouth falls open a little as I gape at the scale of this kind of deception. To resort to such dangerously contrary tactics means this must be an extremely valuable and inaccessible target.

He then proceeds to demonstrate his skill by pointing out each of my tells. His eyes gleam with intelligence as he lays out for me how he was able to completely unraveled my story through my mannerisms, my brief exchange with Stanford as I entered, my phone, the way I stood. It was a spectacular dressing down that sent a tingle down my spine at the pure cunning ingenuity of it. 

His voice spills out rapid yet eloquent. His observations and deductions are sharp, cutting and precise and he wields them like daggers, mercilessly plunging into the most sensitive of areas and slicing for the main arteries. By the time he hands me back my phone I am gaping at his mental prowess and his highly competent deconstruction of me through a brief meeting. It was everything I hoped for that moment I first met him and I feel as invigorated as when I have gone a few rounds in a good row with a pleasingly scrappy fighter.

_Fuck. He's good. Dangerously good._

“There you go, you see – you were right,” he concludes as he turns stiffly away, a tension having gathered in his shoulders.

“I was right? Right about what?”

“The police don’t consult amateurs.” He turns fully away from me, and this time I don’t get the sense it is a display of power. He appears to be looking out the side window at the passing world as he bites his lip, but I am aware he is actually watching my reflection cautiously. His body language is all wrong. He has crumpled in on himself, almost protectively, yet he has given me his back which is an act of vulnerability that places him at a disadvantage; at my mercy. It almost appears like he is genuinely nervous, but I can’t fathom why such a clearly talented man just having laid me bare in the most exquisite demonstration of mental dexterity I have seen - perhaps ever - should look as if he expects everything to unravel in a matter of minutes. 

I look down at myself, taking stock of my reaction to this completely new experience. I can’t imagine that I am giving off a vibe of threat. I am nearly breathless and my heartbeat is thrumming in my chest as a sort of high or euphoria, is creeping over me making me feel a desire to laugh giddily for the first time in a long while. I feel a bit intoxicated by the whirlwind of his novel thought process. 

“That ... was... _amazing_.” Sherlock turns to me, his cold silver eyes wide with a surprise that feels genuine. For the next four seconds he stares at me as if I am the oddest thing he has ever seen; a new, rare lifeform to be studied under his analytical eyes. I can’t help the way my chest rises and my shoulders fall back welcoming the critical examination.

“Do you think so?” He says cautiously, as if he is trying very hard to find another meaning in my words. His eyes flick over me and I wonder what more he can possibly be seeing.

“Of course it was. It was... extraordinary; it was _quite_ extraordinary,” I say honestly, shaking my head a little in wonder. What I wouldn’t give for _that_ skill. I am good at fighting, sure, but being able to see inside peoples lives and heads with a simple glance... could have saved me a lot of troubles.

The hard, cold expression returns. “That’s not what people normally say,” he says almost accusingly, as if I missed my cue. I blink at him. I can’t think of another way to have reacted.

“What do people normally say?” 

“‘Piss off’!” He smiles briefly at me, another false smile that says he couldn’t care less, perhaps even relishes in their discomfort. There is something more under it, though, something that says I am foolish for not having done the same.

He had been giving me an out. 

_I don’t want an out._

I shake my head and grin as I turn away to look out of the window. I feel him relax a little as the journey continues.


	4. Through the Looking Glass

It is utter madness to throw oneself blind into a mission that can all go for a ball of chalk at any moment but since I am the sort of bloke that flourishes in a bit of madness, it suits me right down to my bones to find myself on that knife edge.

The world has fallen dark. As we exit the cab onto the rain slicked street, I scan the surroundings with a habitual vigilance. Anticipation hums along my veins like high voltage wires.

The black pools of rainwater on the pavement capture and reflect the pulsing police lights in fractured bits of mirror world. It is the first time I can recall ever having thought of London as beautiful. For all her harsh edges, grit and constant buzz, she now is hushed, gleaming like polished granite and holding her breath in the way the world seems to stand still in the moments before a battle breaks out. Catching a reflection of myself and the dark figure of Sherlock looming behind me in a pool at my feet, I certainly feel as though I have taken a tumble through the looking glass. A new world of menacing shadows and flashes of brilliance is revealing itself before me and my personal guide is madder than The Hatter himself.

It would make my situation much more manageable if Sherlock, as host over this perilous new land, this absurd soiree, were like the storybook hatter; bumbling, well-meaning but well-insane - unintentionally dangerous - but Sherlock is sharp, clever and unquestionably lethal - purposefully so, when he wants to be. While our lot is now tossed in together, with mutual enemies to fight, I have no delusions that he is looking out for my well-being, especially when doing so may conflict with his own (yet undetermined) objectives. At this very moment it does not go unnoticed that he is brushing his body along my back; covertly feeling for my weapon tucked in the small of my back where I usually keep it now. 

_It's not there._

I should be grateful that I chose to leave my gun behind - carrying an illegal firearm to a crime scene that is swarming with NSY is a risk that only a foolish man would take. However, I could never have guessed that the evening would take this turn when I chose to leave it at my flat. Like offering my phone at that first meeting, my absence of weaponry at the second meeting was a symbolic demonstration of trust. _Symbolic_ because we both know, in truth, I am still dangerous enough in my own right that leaving it behind is merely trusting to my own hands and wits to fight my way out of the situation, should it go south. However, there are times when a gun is the only thing that is going to save your skin. My leg twinges painfully and I flex my fingers in their grip around my cane. I would rather be clutching that cold metal that was constantly against my body as my only means of survival day in and day out for years. At times like these, being without it feels like missing a limb.

Operating in the blind should be something I am used to from the army but back then I at least had some sense of what was required of me even if I did not know why. Here, I have neither direction nor objective to operate on and am painfully aware that in such situations failure is highly probable. 

There are things Sherlock knows about the situation we are entering that I do not, but when I glance back at him, his silver-blue eyes have already shifted away, revealing nothing of what he makes of my lack of easy access to a weapon or what he wants of me in this circumstance. Instead, he moves to a safer distance from me and, as if trying to offer some small measure of consolation for continuing to hold me in a state of ignorant reliance upon him, he asks if he got anything wrong in his deductions about my life, _as if my confirmation is needed._

By habit, I am not prone to revealing where a potential enemy has erred in their assessment of information until I know it is beneficial to do so but, since he pointedly asks and our trust is yet fragile, I give over confirmation on some of the minor details about Harry. Then I point out that Harry is my sister rather than brother, something he could have easily checked for himself by now and likely has. He seems genuinely irritate to have missed that. I can’t exactly blame him for his fixation on that one error - in the field, even small errors can cost lives. Here, however, it hardly seems relevant. But he seems determined not to talk about anything that could be useful. I try to pry out of him what he wants of me; why I am here with him. He reveals nothing. 

In Greek mythology, the entrance of the infernal regions of the land of the dead was thought to be guarded by a beast with three dog-like heads and the tail of a serpent. Sergeant Donovan, Anderson and DI Lestrade all snap, snarl and bare their teeth at Sherlock and I as we attempt to enter the crime scene. However, they obviously have no idea who Sherlock is and what he is truly capable of because their attempts at cutting him down to size are feeble and futile. Sherlock neatly ties them each into such knots that, for all intents and purposes, they roll onto their backs to cower. It is fascinating to see and I find my admiration for the man growing exponentially as I watch him at work. 

About the time I am kneeling over the dead woman’s body with Sherlock leaning in too close, a fiery glint in his eyes and a slight smile on his lips, a thought strikes me upside the head.

_‘Fuck, he is flirting with me, isn’t he?’_

Not in the sexual sense. This isn’t about _that._ At least I don’t _think_ it is and I should know. My ability to charm and disarm in order to get a leg over (even with hard cases) earned me a reputation in the army as _‘Three Continents Watson’_ , so I consider myself pretty adept at detecting attraction. It is for the better that it is not because, fit as he is, I swore I would never go down _that path_ again. No, the way he is looking at me is not dumb lust. He does not have even the smoldering embers of budding desire clouding his expression; he is focused and calculating, like a laser burning into me with precision. 

This is beyond physical. 

This twisted, bizarre, outrageous courtship ritual is like the flat being arranged to give the feel of a war room. It’s a perfectly suited enticement to lure me into his mission. And, looking back on my own involuntary exclamations of praise for his skill, I objectively have to say _it is bloody well working._ I am quickly becoming addicted to the rapid fire assault of his fiercely executed, mind-blowing observations. Always hitting their mark, like heat seeking missiles. It is like watching the shock wave of an explosion in slow motion, radiating outwards in a rolling wave that pulls the world apart with awe-inspiring, unstoppable devastation. I give in and play along, analysing the victim's body medically, becoming part of his outrageous cover story. 

Then it is over.

I am left at the crime scene without so much as a backward glance from the man that dragged me into that strange netherworld. It is not as if I could have, by rights, expected anything more from him, but his eagerness and intensity in pursuing me had deluded me into thinking I was of tactical importance at least and therefore would not be so coldly cast aside. He shouts one word, _‘pink’_ and then dashes off. I am left trying to discern if this is a code or if there was some signal I overlooked that would indicate what I should do with myself. 

There was a time when at least my body could keep up with the likes of Sherlock Holmes on the trail of a murderer, but as it is I can taste the tang of gunpowder on my tongue and there is a shredded, hollowed-out feeling of having slipped into invisibility without intending to. This sensation is only reinforced by the police officers bustling about their tasks and bumping against me, throwing me off-balance and making me lurch heavily against the banister. My bad leg is positively howling.

I slowly make my way down the stairs and out of the house, looking for some sign of where Sherlock has disappeared to. Irritation bristles through me and my mood is dark and cutting by the time I limp down the street in search of a cab. Given the awkward state of ignorance I have been kept in, I feel a bit like a crow made commander, completely bimbly - left to wander aimlessly, without any tactical objective, and hope to stumble upon some use for myself. 

I leave behind Sergeant Donovan and her warnings about Sherlock being a psychopath that I should stay away from. She cannot begin to comprehend the man and I have a sinking suspicion that if she knew _the real me_ she might not think me much better. 

What she does not know is that Sherlock _has_ killed men. I am certain of it. You can see it in a man’s eyes if you look hard enough, and I hadn’t been able to help looking in his eyes - had been nearly swallowed up in their fiery depths. At least you can see and know that another has killed when you yourself have killed because it is an uncomfortable echo of your own ghastly, inner demons. I know Sherlock has killed because I have killed men too. There were bad days in service - times when people stood around a body that I, John Watson, had put there... and in the end the reasons don’t seem to matter much.

In the end, what matters is doing what needs to be done for the greater good. 

Sherlock is solving crimes. Sherlock is putting his life on the line to catch a criminal so big that he must expose himself, put himself out there as bait. Donovan can scowl and scorn and spit the word 'freak' like venom but she will likely never know what sacrifices Sherlock is making for her. That is the lot of soldiers and spies. Sometimes the very people you are trying to save spit on you. Sometimes those that you are fighting and dying for take up weapons against you. You do what needs to be done and don't expect gratitude or even acknowledgement. You are damned for the greater good.

The retreating adrenaline rattles on my nerves and leaves an emptiness in its wake. As I hobble down the street in a broken body, binned by the army and now failing to rise to the challenge of something greater, my head is pounding, filled with dark, brooding contemplations; mysterious enemies and even more mysterious allies, shadows and dancing lights in mirror worlds, beasts and gods beneath our feet. I am so caught within these circling thoughts that I miss the danger of the serpent coiling around me. It is ridiculous and lazy; in another time it would have seen me killed. I am shamefully oblivious until it all comes into focus at the sharp trill of the public phone. My mind snaps into high alert and I at last reassemble the pattern of the phones ringing in succession beside me and the CCTV cameras tracking my progress. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end as I look around the crowded street. I feel the presence now; that cold, slimy body curling around me.

I have choices, I suppose; to persist in feigned ignorance and, at the first opportunity, escape the clutches of that creature lurking in the shadows or to turn and face this unknown enemy. But, it is not a choice. Not really. Not for me, anyhow. I am a soldier. Cursed with determination and an unhealthy lack of common sense when it comes to self-preservation.

I step into the booth and answer the phone.

_Contact. Wait out._

Enemy engaged.


	5. Going to Battle

War, if he was a person, would most certainly be a bi-polar, manic depressive, bastard. 

War creates a strange reality where everything exists in two extremes; urgent mania and soul crushing inertia. All men that go to war learn to exist within that twisted dichotomy.

In the blink of an eye, all hell breaks loose; bullets whizzing by and shells exploding, men screaming and bleeding and dying, and you find yourself, quite literally, scrambling for your life. In that moment you have the impossible task of doing everything at once; grabbing your gun, finding cover, saving the man next to you, calling it in, locating the enemy, returning fire, _not_ getting killed - **_please-god-don’t-get-killed-NOT-TODAY!_ **

The world narrows down to two possibilities: you do enough and you _survive_ or you fall short and you _perish._

In between moments like those, there are long stretches of _the calm._ Times where everything is quiet and routine; you dig latrines, and you run patrols and you eat scran and, on good days, you drink and smoke and shag like there is no tomorrow, but mostly you wait and you wait and you wait. 

Never knowing when the battle will come -

You

Wait. 


Any sane person might think that those moments of _the calm_ are to be savored; a time to breathe, a time to think, a time to exist without being in a violent tangle with death. One might think that that is where life happens for a soldier, but they’d be _wrong._

Soldiers dread _the calm._ They loathe it with every fibre of their being. Soldiers are, after all, _men of action._ Whatever their character before the army, they are broken down and re-made so every part of them serves the battle. That is their sole purpose and a man who isn't living within his purpose is a man _not living._

And that is the dark truth of _the calm_ , it is a state of _not-living._

For soldiers, the calm of waiting is a personal hell. You atrophy in that agony of anticipation. When you are not fighting, when you cannot run, when you have to just stand there and wait for the battle to come whilst drowning in your thoughts and fears and doubts, that is when death feels like your closest bedfellow. _The calm_ closes in around you with the suffocating finality of a death shroud.

You cannot know, precisely, what you will _do_ in the battle to come or what that battle will _do to you_. You may live or you may die or you may end up in that purgatory of wounded that are somewhere in between... but waiting to find out... well… that just leaves a soldier feeling himself to be half dead already. 

Waiting feels like _dying...._  
Battle feels like a _fighting chance_ at least.

So, it is with a certain manic enthusiasm that most soldiers rush into the embrace of that hellish battle when it at last swoops down upon them. 

And that is why now, having been forced into the back of a long, black unmarked car by way of vague threats from a faceless, immensely powerful enemy, I am grinning slightly and my hands are steady and my leg doesn’t hurt one bit. 

I am going to battle and I am nearly fuckin' giddy over it.  
This beats all hell out of _the calm._

My sole warden on this march into the fray is an attractive young woman that smells like jasmine and amber, and whose eyes gleam like burnished copper in the light from her Blackberry. 

She claims her name is Anthea.

“Is that your _real_ name?”

“Uhm… No.” She smiles her best soothing smile and it is a frosty and dispassionate, almost inhuman, sort of thing. Disturbing on such a pretty face.

I twist around in my seat, eyes dragging over her as I pretend to glance out the back window. All signs point to her being an analyst. She doesn’t appear combat trained; fit but curvy. Not muscled in the right way to suggest she'd be any physical threat. Accustomed to an office job, I’d say. A busy one at that, by the way her fingers are rap tapping on the keys of her Blackberry; numbers and words flying by. 

_Not-Anthea_ is _not a threat._

Blatantly so. 

It's a curious strategy. 

My captor assumes I won't require brute force or a gun against my head as a means of coercion into an encounter that any other man would assume (given the threatening undertone of that voice on the phone) could very likely end in a bullet in my brain and my body in the bottom of the Thames. 

They are either very stupid or smart enough to know me very well. They must know that I won't waste energy fighting my captor’s henchmen - that I'll bide my time until I can get within striking distance so I can cut off the head of the _true threat._

_They have my record, then._  
_Know about my capture outside Kuldahar._

“I’m John,” I offer, the sharp edge of my tone just enough to indicate that I know they've swatted up on me. She doesn't bother to tear her eyes from her screen but a smirk comes over her lips.

“Yes, I know.” The amused lilt of her voice says she is accustomed to knowing so much more than anyone suspects and her depth of knowledge about me in particular is far more than I'd be comfortable with; likely to warrant some embarrassment on my part. 

_Shit._

Everything from my first crush to my last shag has undoubtedly passed beneath her apathetic gaze and now, from some scraps of data, she thinks she _knows me_? That's annoying - bloody well _infuriating,_ really. 

Obviously, she chose her name as an allusion to the goddess of _wisdom_ , then. However, knowledge doesn't make one wise and it's the hubris of analysts and bureaucrats to think they can know the truth of things from where they sit, safely behind their computer screen. 

I bristle, gripping my cane tighter. There's a bitter taste on the end of my tongue and an urge to snap that I am carefully holding in check.

“Any point in asking where I’m going?”

“None at all …” Her smile does not reach her eyes which look perpetually bored with my very existence.

I can, I know, still make a go at escape. I can prove their little analysis of me wrong by making a right mess of their plans. Seeing a look of surprise on her face would surely be worth it. 

It is only a few heartbeats later and I have just about committed to a plan that is going to end in an unconscious analyst, a shattered window and a scraped and bruised _but free_ ex-soldier when she shifts in her seat.

“... John.” It has just a touch of insistence to it. Not warning nor threat, but gentle reprimand. _‘Don't be foolish.’_

_Shit._  
_Well, one has to choose their battles... and that… well, that would be a stupid hill to die on._

“Okay.” I settle back in for the ride, watching the slick city slide by. 

_I'll surprise the bastards yet._

\--------+------

Near the top of the list of places where people are known to end up beaten, tortured and ultimately with a bullet in their brain, is in disused warehouses. So, I can't say I am thrilled that my journey ends in a large empty warehouse in East London. It is an unremarkable building pinned in by the high walls of the docks and set among a row of stark, low-slung, dilapidated, industrial complexes between the north bank of the river Thames and The Highway. It is a district that is isolated from the rest of London and has a haunted feeling about it, like _once-useful_ and now _long-abandoned_ places do.

The large metal door slides closed behind us, cutting off the outside world. A well-groomed man in a bespoke suit is standing in the centre of the open space of the warehouse. The dusty light from a single industrial lamp filters over the man as he leans nonchalantly on an umbrella and lifts his head to watch impassively as we pull up.

The ride has given me time to consider quite a few things about my would-be captor. I have determined that this situation is both more delicate and less ductile than my initial assumptions. 

My first conclusion is that there is a level of finesse to this that speaks of someone influential and affluent but constrained. That, coupled with Sherlock's position as an MI6 operative and the level of knowledge and power displayed in abducting me, means this whole scenario reeks of government covert operations. 

This does not make the man that brought me here any less dangerous. On the contrary, I know that this makes me a pawn in a game much larger and more complex than I can hope to fathom… And pawns are frequently sacrificed on a whim for objectives they will never know and can't hope to ameliorate. 

Secondly, and this is merely a gut feeling rather than anything specific I can point to, this is the same person who was texting Sherlock in the car. The man who flustered the genius agent. 

_This is whom an alpha predator truly fears._

This all amounts to a pretty helpless and hopeless position for a man like me to be in. My leg twinges and I dig my knuckles into it. I look over at Anthea for any indication of what is expected of me now that the car has come to a stop. Her eyes flick up to me briefly then cut to the door with a dismissive tick of her head. I open the door and rise to my feet. Head held high, my eyes quickly sweep the area as I move towards the man that manipulated me into coming here. 

For a property that should be thirty years out of use, this place is remarkably tidy and well kept. The floor is swept clean, with no debris, no sign of animal infestation or squatters or the general destruction of property and graffiti that litter forgotten places. In the shadows lining the walls, large machines hulk beneath military-grade canvas; free from that layer of dust and dirt that covers everything not provided constant attention. All this gives me the impression that this place is carefully crafted to appear abandoned but still gets frequent, if discreet, use.

This supports my suspicions that there is government aegis to the man that brought me here.

In front of me, the man waits with one foot crossed at the ankle. He is thin and his face suits the finery of his immaculate clothing. He has the striking, ageless, features of someone born into privilege. He has smooth, pale skin, high cheekbones, a sharp nose that, with an upward tilt of his chin, he holds high. It hooks over thin lips that are drawn into a small sneer of distaste, as if the whole world is a disappointment. His eyes are small, deep-set and eerily dark. 

A plain, straight-backed armless chair sits facing himself. He gestures to the chair with the point of his umbrella as I march towards him.

“Have a seat, John.” It is not an order but everything from his tone to the practised casualness of his body language speaks to how accustomed this stranger is to having his every request obeyed. It slides beneath my skin and grates on my nerves. I ignore his words, determined to throw him off his carefully constructed game.

“You know, I’ve got a phone.” I continue towards him, my voice calm as my eyes move over the shadows around us; counting the vague shapes of men there. 

_Three._

“I mean, very clever and all that, but... you could just phone me… _On my phone._ ” 

I'm to believe he doesn't know my mobile number? The pretentious bastard tracked me with CCTV and called every phone on the street I wandered down. He has clearly had his team paw through my past and he's probably used a small fortune in government resources to arranged this abduction with the theatrics of a grand production. I am certainly going to call him on his bullshit posturing and this elaborate ruse. 

I walk straight past the chair and stop within striking distance, only a few paces in front of the aristocratic man. The shapes in the shadows do not move to intercept me.

_Not a threat then, am I?_  
_Wrong there._

I haven't decided if I am going to make a go at taking him out. After all, this isn't a war zone. He hasn't done me physical harm nor made any overt threat on my life. As abductions go, it has been pretty damn polite. So, a physical altercation would be... _excessive,_ no matter how I am itching for it. However, if he thinks he can hold me off with that umbrella until his men get to me and pull me off, he has most certainly shifted into the _‘incredibly stupid’_ category. I only need three minutes.

“When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet, hence this place.” The man's voice is smooth and pithy. He is smiling, and it seems foreign on that hawkish face; plastered on, while underneath everything about him is frosty, unemotional and rigorously controlled. There is an effort at charm in his tone so far. His gaze flicks to my leg a moment, “The leg must be hurting you.” His tone becomes more stern, “Sit down.”

An attempt at a more direct order. Well, that's not on. This stranger hasn't earned my respect nor cooperation and John H. Watson is no longer government property.

I brush aside his offer with a biting edge to my words. “I don’t want to sit.”

He lifts an eyebrow and looks me over with a bit more interest; a spark of curiosity flickering in his eyes. He has a rather thin imitation of a pleasant smile on his mouth, that is obviously better suited for scowls and cutting words.

“You don’t seem very afraid.” There might well be disappointment in his tone buried beneath that cutting edge of irritation but his expression remains neutral while his eyes are sharp and calculating. 

“You don’t seem very frightening.” If he thinks anything about what he has done to me so far merits triggering my fear response, he has severely underestimated me and my tolerance for ass out situations.

He laughs but it is bitter and hollow, like someone scorning the world for attempting to amuse him. His lips are so thin they seem to vanish altogether when he presses them together and his eyes flash with darkness. I consider that he might even be enjoying himself as he measures me up for a moment like a great cat that has become lazy with too much ready prey and relishes a little challenge.

Then, wasting no breath on unnecessary things, he unleashes his strategic assault with the ease of a man that is accustomed to manipulating situations to his benefit. We both dodge questions like the best of prize fighters ducking punches and only reveal bits of information to gauge the other's reactions and pull a little truth out. 

To him, knowledge is power.  
To me, knowledge is _survival._

And it’s a universal truth that one should never bet against a soldier _when survival is on the line._

 

\--------+------------

Back inside the long, black car, I stare down at my phone as we weave our way to my little bedsit. The screen has gone black but the three messages from Sherlock are burned into my brain, swirling with the words from the posh stranger, who I have taken to calling _Mr. Controller_ in my mind. The mysterious government man seems the type to manage agents. I can't be certain that he is _Sherlock’s Controller,_ given the roundabout method he attempted to use to contain the rogue agent. Attempting to employ me as an asset to spy on Sherlock was… _unexpected._

I didn't take the bait. In the heat of battle, I rely on my gut reactions - instincts and muscle memory - and so it was a visceral impulse that compelled me to turn down his offer. 

Now, stewing in the aftermath, I am faced with puzzling out that tangle of motivation that drove me to be so loyal to the mad genius that abandoned me at a crime scene only to interrupt my kidnapping with three different messages - each demonstrating drastically different tactics in an effort to get me back to Baker Street; asking, then demanding, then enticing with the promise of danger.

Mr. Controller's offer to spy on Sherlock for money may well have been my only chance to align myself with someone powerful enough to pull my arse out of the fire when everything in this operation goes wrong, as it is bound to do. And it is unsettling that I didn't take that logical choice; placing loyalty to a man I hardly know before saving myself. I am, after all, taking Sherlock's word (or, more truthfully, a series of half-truths and vague looks and gestures) that he is MI6 and working to bring down such a high-level terrorist threat that it calls for the absurd cover story of being a ‘consulting detective.’

In truth, I know nothing about Sherlock, his standing in Her Majesty's Secret Service and if he is working _for or against_ the greater good. Yet, there is an unfounded compulsion driving me to, quite literally, take up arms and defend this man I barely know. At this very moment, Mr. Controller’s black luxury car is taking me to pick up my gun at my bedsit then delivering me back to 221B and Sherlock's side. 

_What is Sherlock’s hold on me?_

_Am I loyal so quickly?_

Mr. Controller seemed to think so. 

I would never admit it aloud, but Mr. Controller got under my skin and snaked his way around my brain. It hadn’t gone as expected. I had been fully prepared for intimidation, discreet and overt threats, and even the looming shadow men giving me a roughing-up at some point in an effort to pry me away from their valued agent whom had strayed from the plan the moment I entered the picture. 

What had happened was so different than expected that I am left with a lingering sense of disorientation and a sickening clench in my stomach. 

The first thing that rattled me was the implication that my intention with Sherlock is to pursue a physical relationship with him. That aches like bruised ribs that smart every time I take a breath because I have been taking that beating over the last twelve hours from _every person_ that knows Sherlock. 

Everyone seems to believe that Sherlock and I shagging is a bloody foregone conclusion. So, I am beginning to think I am missing some vital information about Sherlock’s history in that area. He doesn't seem like the type to be a Raven or working as a Honey Trap (using his sexual wiles to intimidate or snare targets) but one never knows. 

_If he is… what the hell does that make me? Am I a target?_

_Christ! What does he want from me?_

I should be closer to answering that last question since it has been haunting me from the beginning of this mess. But now there are even more questions and the answers seem even more elusive with each passing hour.

I turn the phone over in my hand and feel the inscription on the back with a brush off my thumb. I can't help the smile that pulls at the corners of my mouth as I remember the cab ride to the crime scene a few hours earlier. Sherlock had held this same phone like it was a Rosetta Stone, translating his brilliant perceptions into something mere mortals like me could follow. The awe and the thrill of witnessing such true genius at work echoes through my system like a shockwave.

_Shit. So fucked._

I close my eyes and rest a finger against my lips as I consider how everything that has to do with Sherlock is dangerous. 

Mr. Controller’s voice comes back to me, echoing through the warehouse from behind me as I walked away. 

“I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him, but I can see from your left hand that’s not going to happen.”

That had struck me in the chest and I had stopped dead in my tracks, snared. For a few breaths I contemplated if I should respond or get out while I still could. I was already furious at Mr. Controller for prying into my therapist’s notes with no sense of decency nor boundaries. More so because most of what my therapist, Ella, had conclude about me was based on spotty information at best and deliberate misinformation at worst and therefore far from sound. What she called ‘trust issues’ I called ‘intelligent precautions.’ She couldn’t possibly grasp the brutal truth beyond her shiny, surface reality. Quite frankly, I considered the trusting attitude she espoused to be a naive delusion that a man with my experiences could not afford. 

However, I was, at that moment, still telling myself that there was time to walk away from Sherlock. That turning down Mr. Controller's offer didn't mean I was bound to accept Sherlock’s mission and fight his battles. After all, I hadn't yet agreed to move in with the man and I currently knew too little to be of threat to anyone if I cut ties and slipped back into my mundane life. 

I told myself this while knowing deep down (as completely nutters as it all was) some part of me was already committed beyond retreat to Sherlock Holmes. I didn't know what part of me was causing this rebellion against common sense. So, Mr. Controller's words sparked a small flicker of hope that this offending part of myself that was damning me to this end could be identified and coldly cut away. Though, given the heavy innuendo aimed at me and Sherlock, I would have been less surprised if Mr. Controller had told me that the part betraying me was a bit further south than my hand.

Mr. Controller demanded to see my left hand, leaning casually on his umbrella like a man who is used to having his orders obeyed. I was not intimidated and deliberately shifted my feet under myself, digging in as I raised my left hand and stood still. If he wanted to look at my hand, he'd have to do it from there. I certainly was not going to come to him.

What happened next has to be one of the weirdest experiences I have ever had... _and that is saying a lot._ The man strolled forward, hooking the handle of the umbrella over his arm as he reached for my hand. I had tried to withdraw, spooked by the invasion of my personal space and the sudden intimacy of the man wanting to touch me. It was unnerving. The shadows of men had shifted around us, moving forward, drawing in as the man lowered his head and raised his eyebrows at me, almost as if saying, _‘We do this the easy way or the hard way.’_

He clearly would touch me, no matter how I felt about it.

_Shit. Should have walked away._

I gritted my teeth and presented my hand for inspection. He curled his pale, delicate fingers around my callused and sun-weathered hand. His touch was surprisingly gentle and his fingers were soft; no calluses to indicate he had ever worked hard with them or wielded a weapon. It was both humbling and infuriating. It made me hyper-aware of how battered and broken my own body had become. That vast chasm of life experiences that had hardened me but were mere distant nightmares to him. He wrapped my wrist with one hand and flattened the palm of the other hand against the tips of my fingers. He examined it for a moment and I knew he could feel my pulse accelerating, my muscles tensing with each passing second. I was coiling tighter and tighter, ready to take a swing at him just to alleviate the discomfort of this gentle invasion.

He abruptly let go of my hand with a sound of interest. He called me remarkable, which was quite a turn about and, by way of explanation, made an unexpected jump in conversation from my hand tremor to my therapist’s diagnosis of PTSD to the fact that I felt most at home in battle. I honestly felt a bit exposed. 

“You’re not haunted by the war, Doctor Watson ... you _miss it_.” In calling me 'doctor' there was a new level of respect that he hadn't shown me throughout this entire ordeal. He had begun by looking down his nose at me and addressed me as ‘John.’ Now he was looking at me with the slightest edge of grim respect, as if he acknowledged I may be a worthy opponent. He leaned closer to me and I reluctantly lifted my gaze from my hand to meet his icy stare. “Welcome back.” It was whispered with a challenging smile that was somehow _familiar._

He turned and walked away, casually twirling his umbrella as he went. “Time to choose a side, Doctor Watson,” he called over his shoulder. 

Every mission reaches a point of no return. You must commit to executing the operation because aborting or retreating can only result in more damage than continuing forward, no matter the risk. This mission had only been lain before me for a few hours but it was clear right then that I couldn't sit on that fence much longer as it was growing more painful by the moment. So, then and there, staring down at my phone and the last message from Sherlock _‘It could be dangerous. -SH’_ I chose my path. I chose my side.

________+__________

As the car pulls up outside my bedsit, I open my eyes and look around at the sparsely lit street. I can make out the shapes of the general riffraff that rule the darkness; criminals and outcasts that keep to the shadows like they have become one with the night. Seeing these people creeping out of the cracks of the city like forgotten ghosts used to stir something inside me, a sort of kindred desperation and purposelessness of existence that made me want to scream and hit things or curl up in my bed and fade away. I was becoming one of them. Now, I feel as if I have been pulled from their grasp; resurrected to walk among the living. 

I open the door into my bedsit and switch on the light. Walking inside and closing the door behind me, I cross the room to my desk and open the drawer, taking out my pistol. I check the clip, then tuck the gun into the back of the waistband of my jeans, the cold metal sliding against my hot skin. It feels good. It feels right. There is a sureness, a focus and confidence of purpose coursing through every fibre of me. It is intoxicatingly familiar yet there is still that clench in my stomach and a quiver of something dark and menacing hiding in the recesses of my own mind. I stop and press my eyes closed as I lean on my cane heavily, letting the wrenching wave of uneasiness flow over me. 

I open my eyes and hold my left hand out in front of me; studying it. There is something like a cold breath on the back of my neck in seeing that my tremor has abruptly abandoned me. That cursed tremor had kept me from returning to my duties as an army surgeon. I had agonized over it and exhausted myself in search of a cure but it had been a bloody neon sign of weakness and frailty that I was no longer capable of holding a scalpel steady. The army had taken one look and deemed me incompetent to stitch up the mangled, wounded bodies of men that the enemy produced with too great a regularity. Now, that shameful plague of inadequacy is simply _gone_... and I feel absurdly bereft about that. 

This battle is already doing things to me I had not expected. 

I lift my eyes to the front door as my hand slips into my pocket and curls around my phone. Something is breaking inside me, like a sun beam piercing through the storm clouds and burning them away. The darkness recedes and a smile creeps onto my face. Another breath and desire to laugh is bubbling up inside me as I begin to move towards the door again. 

_London is a warzone._  
_I'm going to battle and I am fuckin’ giddy about it._

I close the door on my little bedsit - on that little life - and charge back towards the battle - _towards Sherlock Holmes._


	6. Request, Demand, Entice

The door to 221 is unlocked and the flats within are still and silent as I cautiously ascend the stairs. The door to the sitting room of 221B is open as well. It's all rather lax security for a man courting a criminal mastermind and… _perhaps_... one former soldier.

I move quietly and carefully by habit, wary of what awaits me. I pause on the landing outside the sitting room entrance. Before I even enter, I can see that Sherlock is lying prone on his back on the sofa; his lean form stretched out with his socked feet on the end towards the door and his head haloed in the street light from the window. He has removed his jacket and his shirt sleeves are unbuttoned and pushed up his surprisingly well-defined arms. He has his eyes closed. His right hand is wrapped around his left arm, pressing firmly below the elbow. 

I know he hears me and is aware of the moment he is in my sites because his eyes snap wide open and, gazing up at the ceiling, he lets out a breathy sigh; air gushing past parted lips and body relaxing in an expression so sensual that I can only describe it as relieved ecstasy. 

My mind immediately starts whirling through the questions Mr. Controller had sparked in me with his assumptions about Sherlock and I. It seems completely daft to think Sherlock has designs on seducing me when nearly all our time together has been like polite battle. _Yet._.. texting someone late at night to lure them to your flat, only to be lain out, like a feast, in anticipation of their arrival is… well... _pretty bloody suggestive._

Questions ricochet around in my head as I pause for a few seconds to watch him.

 _Intentionally provocative?_  
_Another carefully constructed enticement?_  
_What the hell is he playing at?_

I march through the door. 

“What are you doing?”

“Nicotine patch. Helps me think.” 

Of course the tosser can’t just answer the question he knows I am asking, which is, _‘What the hell are you trying to do to me with this act?’_

He lifts his right arm to show me that he has three round nicotine patches on the exposed underside of his arm and it was these which he was pressing against his skin in the moments before he became aware that I was watching.

“Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days.” For all his typical rapid and precise speech, now he appears to be savoring his words; stroking them with his tongue like they are rich indulgences. Which is odd, not only for him, but for anyone with enough nicotine in their veins to make an elephant tap dance.

“Bad news for brain work.” He clicks the ‘k’ sharply. And it can't be ignored how well that keeps my attention on his absurdly lush mouth; that sharp and skilled tongue straining against the back of his teeth with the suggestion of barely restrained power.

I lean forward to look over the bared arm and I can see the faint network of blue veins twisting through the porcelain white of his skin. The muscles of his forearms are strong and flexing gently as he clenches and unclenches his fist, encouraging the nicotine to pump through his blood. As I drink in the inviting vulnerability of his body sprawled before me, there is some stupid, primal, part of me that stirs. A predatory desire piqued by the contrast of how delicate, almost fragile, he can be and how challenging I know he would _actually be_ to overpower.

I know how unquestionably dangerous he is; an agent for MI6, a skilled fighter, a man who has killed. I have some idea what he is truly capable of mentally; genius level intellect with the ability to discern an unfathomable amount of personal data with a glance… and _yet_ … it is the contradiction that catches at me and draws me in, like facing an impenetrable fortress and finding a little crack letting light out. Peeking through the cold, fierce, manipulative facade is the youngness of him. Those (unintended?) glimpses of his vulnerability, insecurity and need pull at me, call to me, drive me to want to push my fingers into that crack and see how much I can split it, how deep it runs and if I can get at what truly lies beneath. 

Against my considerable resistance, my mind strays down that dark path he seems to have lain before me.

_How strong is he?_  
_Could I take him in a close quarters fight?_  
_If I sprung right now, could I pin those wrists?_  
_Hold him down?_  
_Press my weight into him and -_

I clench my fists and lean back, giving myself a mental shake.

_Christ, I need a good fuck or a good fight -_  
_Preferably both._  
_Preferably not with the same person._  
_Less likely to get a knife pulled on me mid-orgasm._

I am speaking rapidly as I step further into the room. The words spill from my mouth, automatically; remarking on the benefits of _not smoking_ and health implications of wearing three patches in rote, doctorly concern. However, my mind has receded into itself, doing damage control on those rogue urges that are threatening my command of this situation; trying to box them away again.

_Now is really not the fucking time, Watson._

When my gaze returns to Sherlock a moment later, he has closed his eyes. His marble features are serene and his palms are pressed together to steeple beneath his lips, as if in prayer. 

He looks dangerously angelic. All stark contrast of dark and light; nothing in-between.  
A fallen angel.  
Perhaps, the devil himself.

“Well?” The tense irritation is threaded through my tone. “You asked me to come. I’m assuming it’s important.” Yes, he'd asked, then _demanded_... Then he’d lain down the threat (promise?) of danger. 

I straighten my stance, glancing around at the empty flat. The metal of the gun tucked in my waistband at the small of my back has warmed to my skin, molded itself there like a buttress for my spine; reminding me of who I am, who I have been and, _perhaps,_ can be again. 

Sherlock stays still and quiet, refusing to respond initially. It is as if I never spoke or he has forgotten I am there. These power games are beginning to wear on my patience. After a couple of seconds his eyes snap open.

“Oh, yes, of course. Can I borrow your phone?” He doesn’t bother turning his head to look at me, instead gazing up at the ceiling again. His voice is casual but the calm disinterest he has infused his words with is nothing less than cunning. A lot has happened since I first offered up my phone to him in Bart’s lab. For him to ask me to willingly hand it over now feels a bit more weighty; a status check of where we now stand. I halt, going completely still, the hairs on my neck standing up a little in warning.

“My phone?” I glare at him, trying to ascertain what he is playing at. I have even less reason to trust him now than that first meeting. The past few hours have made me increasingly aware of the (likely deadly) consequences of these little decisions to move towards, rather than away, from him.

His rush of words in an attempt to head off any logical argument on my part by offering another weak excuse for not making use of his own phone, only makes me more leery of the purpose of this request. 

I counter, pointing out that Mrs. Hudson has a phone as well, whereas I was on the other side of London. He brushes that aside with another (rather feeble) excuse that he was unwilling to get up and there was _’no rush.’_

I stare at him a moment. We both know there is no good textual reason for me to hand over my phone... Which only leaves his subtextual reasons; dominance, trust, surrender of power and perhaps gathering additional intel. 

There is a tension in his body, a slight pursuing of his lips, and then a subtle flexing of his feet against the couch arm. The way all that inexplicably gathers heat in my chest that spreads downward is what makes the part of my mind responsible for my survival through ‘intelligent precautions’ at last click into gear. Rapidly analysing my situation, I suddenly see the pattern of how he operates; the _request,_ then the _demand,_ then the _enticement._

It’s a formula. 

From the first moment we met that has been how he played the game; he _requested_ my phone, _demanded_ that we get a flat together, then revealed to me the _enticement_ by having the flat arranged like a war room. 

Through texts; he _requested_ my presence, then _demanded_ it, then offered the _enticement_ of _danger._

He now has my presence, he is demanding my phone and the enticement is... 

My eyes travel over his body and my heart rate and breathing ratchet up a notch. 

_Fuck._

The bastard is programing me. Conditioning me. Plain and simple... and it's bloody well _working_ because since the moment I walked in he has had me salivating like Pavlov’s dogs in unconscious anticipation of the next step in the pattern.

_Shit!_

Taking on a knife wielding, MI6, genius agent that is undercover to catch murderers, while also being stalked by a shadowy government abductor, is one thing… However, being subvertly seduced by said brilliant (and sexy) mad man…

_No. Never again, Watson._

I take a slow breath to step back from that momentary frantic scrambling of my primal brain in its natural _fight-flight-freeze_ panic mode at seeing danger looming large. I have lived through these moments enough times to know survival hinges on maintaining control; shutting down the emotions by forcing yourself to think.

_Think it through, Watson._

_Simple strategy._  
_Defensible… Defeatable._  
_You have choices. Options._  
_Anticipate it._  
_Avoid it._  
_Turn the tables._

_Play the game._

Once I am calm and certain of my defenses, I can almost appreciate the genius of his psychological warfare.  
He established a simple battle rhythm to telegraph his moves so that I subconsciously began to anticipate what was coming. He has kept me distracted; fighting phantom battles and charging at windmills.  
_Brilliant, really._

I grimace at him, my most dangerous and menacing smile, as I relent, digging my mobile from my pocket.

“Here.” I shove the phone towards him. 

Sherlock opens his eyes and holds out his right hand with his palm up, quietly demanding I come to him. I glower at him for a moment, then step forward and slap the phone into his hand. He slowly puts his hands together again, this time with my phone in between his palms. It is such a strangely reverent gesture, as if my phone is precious or sacred, that it stirs something uncomfortable within my chest that I immediately shove down and box away.

I turn and walk a few paces away, putting some distance between us, before turning back towards him again. I let my eyes travel over him, lying serenely on the couch with my most personal item (except, perhaps, my gun) pressed between his palms. I resist the urge to march over and snatch it back by instead pivoting the conversation towards safer ground.

“So what’s this about – the case?”

“Her case,” Sherlock breathes softly.

“Her case?”

“Her suitcase, yes. Obviously,” he declares with an edge of irritation as his eyes pop open. “The murderer took her suitcase. First big mistake.” 

Relieved for the shift away from that physiological game, I relax a little. 

“Okay, he took her case. So?”

"It’s no use, there’s no other way. We’ll have to risk it,” Sherlock whispers to himself intensely, and something about the tone tells me he is talking about _our game,_ rather than the case. 

Before I can inquire about what this ominous and cryptic statement means, he is raising his voice a little and imperiously holding out my phone to me. Still not looking at me, he orders me to use my phone and a number on a paper on the desk to send a text. 

“You brought me here ... _to send a text?_ ” My voice is sharp and incredulous. He bats my irritation away, willfully oblivious to just how infuriating and absurd it is to pretend he called me across town _just to text someone._

_Just how big a fool does he think I am?_

The hot spike of anger slicing through me, for how ridiculously petty and manipulative he is being, is _good_ \- keeping me safely on the side of wanting to punch him rather than... _other_ urges. 

Still, it won't do to escalate things. 

He continues to hold my phone out while I glare at him. I take a deep breath then stomp across the room and snatch my mobile from his hand. 

Rather than comply with his demand, I walk over to the window. As I move away from him, it occurs to me that it is not the absurd premise or trivial task that is angering me. To me, those things are familiar; almost comfortable. As a soldier and an officer, I know the purpose of the tactics he is employing. Forcing me to submit to these kinds of absurd and menial tasks is part of the methods used in basic training to turn civilians into soldiers by stripping away their individual identity and ego. It is essential to creating loyalty, instant obedience to orders and the ability to function as a member of a unit. 

It is that he is trying to evoke my training, trying to turn me back into a soldier, that sets my insides bristling like I've swallowed nettles. As much as I feel the pull of that old life in the fabric of my being, the thought still shakes me. It feels as if the world has gone a bit off tilt so I lean heavily on my cane as I brush aside the curtain to scan the street below. The traffic seems normal and there is no one loitering in an obvious stake out of the flat. I search the building across the way and see the CCTV camera there making its slow sweep of the street. There is no doubt that Mr. Controller is keeping a close eye on us.

I mull over everything that has occurred thus far. It is worth considering, in light of the tactics Sherlock is employing, that right about now would be a great time to cut my losses and walk away.

In some ways Afghanistan was easier. I knew who my enemy was and who was a friend… or, at least, I _thought_ I did _until-_

“What’s wrong?” Sherlock interrupts my darkening thoughts with a sharp voice that actually sounds genuinely concerned. He has refolded his hands under his chin but his eyes are open and he has tilted his head slightly towards me as if to listen better.

It is a cold knot in my stomach that I let my stray thoughts of the past tangle with the present situation.

I look him over and consider the many possible responses to that question. Ultimately, I decide that it's best to make him aware of the threat close at hand.

“Just met a _friend_ of yours.” 

“A _friend?_ ” Sherlock frowns in confusion, the lines on his face revealing genuine apprehension as his eyes cut towards me. 

If the text exchange Sherlock had in the cab on the way to the crime scene was with the posh stranger with a penchant for the dramatic, then Sherlock may not be _friends_ with Mr. Controller but it is definitely an enemy that is being kept close.

“An enemy,” I correct. I get the distinct impression Sherlock knows precisely who I am talking about now because his whole body relaxes, his face smoothing and his eyes turning away again to gaze at the ceiling.

“Oh. Which one?” The tone is so light that he almost seems pleased. I nearly want to laugh with absurdity of it all. How many enemies does he have and how many of them am I likely to run into (or be snatched up by) when walking down the streets of London? 

“Your ‘arch-enemy,’ according to him.” I turn further towards Sherlock to evaluate his reaction. “Do people have arch-enemies?” 

I crook an eyebrow at him, a slight smile pulling the corner of my mouth. As absurd as it is, surrounded by enemies beats the hell out of trudging through civilian life in a state of near lethal boredom.

“Did he offer you money to spy on me?” Sherlock inquires, looking towards me and narrowing his eyes. 

I pause, considering how much I should reveal. I've already made an enemy of Mr. Controller and, for all I know, Sherlock is well aware of his attempted dealings with me. 

“Yes.” 

“Did you take it?” He presses, his tone revealing nothing about what that potential breach of trust will yield. However, his shoulders have tensed. He, no doubt, has a weapon tucked into the cushions that he can retrieve in a blink. I have the distinct impression him doing so hinges on my next response.

“No,” I answer honestly. His body relaxes into the cushions and he turns his eyes back to the ceiling.

“Pity. We could have split the fee. Think it through next time.”

I scoff. Everything is a bloody test and I passed _that one_ but not because I'd anticipated how very poorly it would have ended if I'd returned to Sherlock's side while on Mr. Controller's payroll. No, the reason I turned the government man’s offer down was less strategic and much more... personally unsettling. I push that thought away.

“Who is he?” I have turned my eyes to the street again, a dark cloud of unease descending upon me. 

“The most dangerous man you’ve ever met, and not my problem right now,” Sherlock says softly. 

I really should get used to never getting a direct answer. 

Sherlock is back to snapping out the order to send a text again. I shoot him a dark look but he has already looked away again. 

I walk to the desk to pick up the piece of paper. It looks to be a luggage label with a name, phone number and email address printed in distinctly feminine script on the blanks.

“Jennifer Wilson,” I read aloud. “That was ... Hang on. Wasn’t that the dead woman?” I look up at Sherlock.

“Yes. That’s not important. Just enter the number,” he snaps with urgency. Only a moment ago he'd claimed there was no hurry on waiting for me to come running from across town to do this menial task, yet now he acts as if there is a frantic need to do it as quickly as possible. He badgers me with intense eagerness, encouraging me to type in a message he rapidly dictates. This too is familiar in the same way a sense of constant urgency is created for new recruits as they are groomed to perform under stress. 

It is only when I've hit send that realization fully dawns on me that there could be another reason why he was not giving me time to think.

I stare down at the message:

> What happened at Lauriston Gdns? I must have blacked out. Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Please come.”

I look up to see Sherlock perched in the leather chair by the fireplace, unzipping a pink suitcase and flipping open the lid to reveal the contents. I stagger a few steps backwards in shock, realising what I'm looking at and what it could mean. 

_Oh._  
_Here it is._  
_The first enticement he promised, delivered._  
_The **danger.**  
_

_Right in the thick of it now._

I stare at Sherlock, flabbergasted at the turn of events

Sherlock looks up at me, evaluates my expression and then rolls his eyes.

“Oh, perhaps I should mention: I didn’t kill her,” he says in a voice heavy with scorn.

“I never said you did,” I respond carefully, well aware of the precarious position I am in. 

“Why not?” He looks genuinely surprised, perhaps even a little pleased and impressed, that I didn't jump to the wrong conclusion. “Given the text I just had you send and the fact that I have her case, it’s a perfectly logical assumption.” 

I nod slightly, adjusting my stance to something more military rigid; prepared for the potential fight. 

“Do people usually assume you’re the murderer?” 

“Now and then, yes,” Sherlock smirks and it is a dark and menacing curl of lips. That same sly smile that says he could not care less what faulty conclusions their little minds come to. Or, _perhaps,_ they aren't always altogether _wrong._

He is practically vibrating with anticipation as he puts his hands on the arms of his chair and does a little hop so he is sitting on the backrest, his feet in the seat of the chair. He then clasps his hands under his chin, staring at the case as if it is about to do something scintillating. He certainly looks like a child staring eagerly at their Christmas present.

“Okay…” I limp across the room and drop heavily into the armchair opposite him, waiting for him to make the next move. When nothing is forthcoming, I begin to ask questions about the case. 

With the same insightful leaps of logic that he displayed in the cab, he explains to me how he reasoned out that the killer kept the suitcase in the car. Knowing that the killer would realise his mistake and rid himself of the incriminating evidence as quickly as possible, Sherlock had searched the area around Lauriston Gardens. This had, within an hour, yielded the right skip for the dead woman's distinctive pink case; now opened before us. 

A quick mental calculation and I realise that this means, having found the case, he has been lying about for over an hour awaiting my arrival at the flat, when that was in no way guaranteed. I had never responded to his texts. 

“Pink.” I state, staring at the sea of pink items in the brightly coloured case. Not code then, but the key that unlocked the path to the murder. “You got all that because you realised the case would be pink?” He truly is a marvel. A skilled genius that unraveles the mysteries of the world around him as if it is the most basic equation. “Why didn’t I think of that?” I murmur to myself. Now, with the path so clearly outlined, it all seems so easy to discern. 

“Because you’re an idiot.” Sherlock says bluntly. I look up at him sharply. He makes a placatory gesture with one hand. “No, no, no, don’t look like that. Practically everyone is.” It's an abrupt shift in tactics to turn to demeaning my intelligence. I may not be able to hold court with the likes of Stephen Hawkings and Albert Einstein, but I'd been top of class studying medicine. However, if he is abandoning the enticement strategy for one of belittling, I can embrace it. It frankly puts me much more at ease. Belligerent and creative insults were basically a second language in the army. 

He has a strangely childlike excitement about him as he walks me through the rest of the facts of the case. The murdered woman's phone is missing and the only logical conclusion is that her killer still has it. 

His eyes are gleaming as they lock on me, encouraging me to follow his train of thought. It is a change; an earnest openness that wasn't there before. That out-of-place bit of raw hopefulness in his face as he stares at me, willing me to understand and eagerly waiting to see the spark of insight light my eyes, is so genuine and human that it slips under my skin and rattles my defenses. I look down at my mobile phone on the arm of my chair to get my bearings. 

“Sorry, what are we doing?” I blink, running my fingers over the mobile and forcing myself to focus on the case rather than his slipping mask. “Did I just text a murderer? What good will that do?” 

As if on cue, my mobile begins to ring. I pick it up and read the screen.

> _(withheld)  
>  calling_

I look across to Sherlock as the phone continues to ring. His lips have curled into a devious smile and his eyes have gone distant. I can see the excitement humming through him and the satisfaction of his plan coming together. 

“A few hours after his last victim, and now he receives a text that can only be from her. If somebody had just found that phone they’d ignore a text like that but, the murderer…” He pauses dramatically for a moment until my phone stops ringing. “Would panic.”

He flips the lid of the suitcase closed and stands up, walking across the room to where his jacket is hung.

I continue to stare down at my phone, thinking how this is the second time in as many days that I am considering if I will need to bin my phone because Sherlock has used it for dubious purposes. I really should have learned my lesson the first time.

I finally look up as Sherlock shuffles into his shoes. “Have you talked to the police?”

“Four people are dead. There isn’t time to talk to the police.” 

I cock an eyebrow at him. There is that (false) sense of urgency again. If it was really a matter of beating a clock, how much time would it have saved to have all of Lestrade's men looking for her case as well? And then why text and wait for me to eventually arrive, insisting there was no hurry? Why waste time doing a little song and dance over my phone, then putting on this demonstration to get me engaged in solving the case? 

_No. There is another factor at play here._

“So why are you talking to me?” I track him as he reaches behind the door to take his greatcoat from the hook. As he looks across towards me, his eyes alight on the mantel above the fireplace. The knife is still as he left it, ominously jutting from the skewered mail, but the human skull that caught my eye during that first visit here is now absent. 

“Mrs Hudson took my skull.” Sherlock's face looks suitably sad, like a child whose favorite toy has been taken. 

Well, he had called it his _‘friend,’_ hadn't he? I suppose that makes me...

“So I’m basically filling in for your skull?”

Sherlock smiles wryly at this as he slips on his coat. “Relax, you’re doing fine.” His mouth turns up in chiding amusement but the corners of his eyes are pinched in something like concern.

I watch him from my seat as he settles his coat across his shoulders, all vulnerability gone beneath his armour.

“Well?” 

“Well what?” 

“Well, you could just sit there and watch telly.”

“What, you want me to come with you?’ I eye him suspiciously. Not even going to ask nor demand now? He'd been blatant in the invitation to the crime scene and asking me to come back here. Odd that he is making such a deal of not asking me along now. 

“I like company when I go out, and I think better when I talk aloud. The skull just attracts attention, so …” He fidgets a little, shifting from foot to foot. 

So?  
_Oh_  
Is he saying…?  
Did I pass some sort of _test_ \- some threshold of tolerance of his bullshit - where I've been promoted from _‘target’_ to… potential _friend_?

He is watching me carefully, his lips forced into a thin line and his eyes avoiding me as he smooths his coat as nonchalantly as possible. When he sniffs a little in irritation, I hide my smile by looking down.

“Problem?” He has a nervous energy about him, holding his chin high as he pulls a scarf from his pocket and wraps it round his throat.

“Yeah, Sergeant Donovan.” 

Sherlock looks away in exasperation, his voice full of irritation. “What about her?”

She had said I wasn't Sherlock's friend and, at the time, I had siliently agreed. Yet, recalling all the honest eagerness in the way he has shown me his talents, from asking my opinon about his website to being stunned when I praised his deductions, perhaps we _both_ had been wrong about that.

 _Friend to Sherlock Holmes?_  
Is that all this is about?  
Friendship?  
Christ, _if it is_... He's shit at this.  
But... _so am I_...  
Who else can _men like us_ befriend, really?

“She said..." I look him over for a heartbeat. The coat makes him look older, but his eyes are large and bright and, at the moment, he is either unwilling or unable to hide how nervous he is. Like a newly minted officer, insecure and afraid of being caught out on his inexperience, he is trying to constantly stay in motion; his hands and body moving rapidly. "You get off on this. You enjoy it,” I say instead of calling out what may be a genuine effort to find an ally in his fucked-up, high-stakes world.

“And I said _‘dangerous’_ and here you are,” Sherlock says nonchalantly and there is a flicker of a smile on his lips.

He turns sharply on his heel and walks out the door. 

I sit there thoughtfully for a few seconds, contemplating the odd shift in perspective. 

My phone is warm in my palm. As his lingering body heat seeps from it into my skin, I am finding it difficult to completely quell the feeling that, by staying and following him, I would be complicit in my own inevitable destruction at this mad man's hands.

Is he a genius, master manipulator out to brainwash and/or seduce me so he can use me?  
Or is he a young, inexperienced kid - in way over his head and just trying his best to find a compatriot - an ally, a friend - to help face what promises to be an absurdly dangerous and difficult mission?

I shake my head at myself because, heaven help me, running towards danger is in my nature and Sherlock Holmes is a beautiful, bloody mess of destruction waiting to happen.

“Damn it!” I push myself to my feet and charge after him.


	7. Courting a Murderer

Immersed within that dark delight of unraveling the case, Sherlock is transformed. In the London night air, the star-flecked sky barely visible through the cities gaudy light pollution, he is incandescent; radiating purpose and a kind of aphotic glee that flourishes in those blackest depths of human depravity. He is a _brilliant._ He burns with it; brighter and darker than anyone I have ever seen. A living fire, ablaze; beaming his luminous revelations out into the vast, ever-expanding universe of possibility. I am breathless trying to keep up with both his rhapsody of thoughts and his rapid pace.

Every movement of his lithe body is fluid yet precise; flowing, like his thoughts, in an entrancing dance. It takes an enormous amount of effort to keep my eyes on the pavement before us so I can maintain my balance and avoid jostling the people flowing around us. Hobbling along the street next to him, I try to focus all my attention on his words to catch hold of the tendrils of his whipcord reasoning.

It has been clear from our first meeting that it is going to take all of me to keep up with the likes of him and, for the moment, I relish the challenge. 

I am grateful for the press of metal at my spine when he unveils his plan. Due to the text Sherlock had me send, the killer believes Jennifer Wilson is alive and at Northumberland street. Which is, I assume, where we are trotting off to. _Not that he will tell me such things directly._

It seems we are courting a murderer, _and doesn’t that just seem to be his style?_

“You think he’s stupid enough to go there?” Certainly a man that has managed to kill so many, stir the city into a frenzy of fear and outsmart the best and brightest of Scotland Yard would not be so easily lured into exposing himself.

“No.” A smile curls Sherlock’s lips and it is all the devilish delight of someone that has set a perfect trap. “I think he’s _brilliant enough._ I love the brilliant ones. They’re always so desperate to get caught.” 

My eyes sweep over him from head to toe. I know, with him, it is not just what he says but what he doesn’t say and all the hidden meanings woven into turns of phrases, gestures, looks and weighted words. I had suspected he enjoyed the challenge of a brilliant criminal; a worthy adversary to test his metal against. However, that he attributes his fondness for a (near) equal to the _ease of catching them_ , as if such a person is _desperate to get caught,_ is revealing in a way I am not sure he intends. 

“Why?” 

“Appreciation! Applause! At long last the spotlight. That’s the frailty of genius, John: it needs an audience.” 

The words are a little shock to my system and my body jerks, stuttering a step. I slide narrowed eyes to the genius beside me as a warm thread of revelation twists up my spine.

Looking back on the way he deflated at my lack of enthusiasm for his blog and the way he seemed so astounded by my praise for his skills of deducing me and the crime scene, perhaps he is only underlining what I have been too much an idiot to grasp up to this point. This appears to be a thinly veiled confession of needing someone to see and appreciate his true nature; his skill and competence. Embedded in this mission, undercover, he hasn’t anyone that can really see him for what he is and that can wear on a person.

 _’I get it now,’_ I confirm this with a weighted look and a quiet but resolute, “Yeah.” I know that bleak loneliness of being in a city of millions and still feeling utterly alone; unseen by everyone around you. That was my existence until that moment in the lab at Bart's when he looked up and right into me. Every person gazing at my civilian clothing, coupled with my drawn face and my limp, had made false assumptions about my ability and worth without knowing what I had been through to get to that moment. 

He continues on seamlessly in his performance. His coat flares and his arms lift slightly as he spins to gesture at the city at large. As he explains how the killer is hunting, in plain sight but unseen, in the heart of the city, he crouches a little and looks as if he is on the prowl himself. It seems a very apt role for him, given that he is a skilled agent hiding in plain sight. 

He is so intense and thrilling that I sink into it willingly, becoming that avid audience he requires. My head begins to feel light; drunk with the magnificent riptide of his frenetic drive for answers.

“Think!” He exclaims suddenly, causing me to glance around self-consciously at the people passing by. Eyes that snapped to us at the exclamation are already moving away in disinterest. 

“Who do we trust, even though we don’t know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?”

“Dunno… Who?” I wait for the reveal that is clearly on the tip of his tongue. He hesitates, pressing his lips together, and gives a small shake of his head, face lighting up momentarily before those gloved hands temple at his lips, as if holding in the words.

“Haven’t the faintest,” He lies. “Hungry?” 

I eye him suspiciously as he ducks into a small restaurant with _Angelo’s_ scrolled on the glass door. I follow. I am certain he has some inkling who the killer is but, for some reason, he is waiting to reveal it to me. 

The restaurant smells delicious. Though I have felt little desire for food since my return from war, my stomach gives an unusual twinge of interest and my mouth begins to water at the enticing scent of fresh cooked bread and rich Italian sauces. 

The waiter near the door clearly knows Sherlock and is expecting him. He gestures to a reserved table by the front window. Sherlock obviously planned ahead for our visit here to have it waiting. 

“Thank you, Billy,” Sherlock murmurs softly, as he slips out of his coat and slides onto the bench seat at the side of the table. This only leaves one seat for me, which will have my back to the large window looking onto the street we've just left. 

As Billy takes the ‘Reserved’ sign off the table and moves away, I sit down on the other bench seat and shrug off my jacket. Generally, sitting where I can't see what is coming up behind me makes me nervous. However, Sherlock immediately turns sideways, so he can see out the window, and I have to trust that he is watching my back while I keep an eye on the exits and the rest of the restaurant. 

My gaze sweeps the room, assessing the people and the potential dangers within. There are two exits, nine staff and twelve other patrons. Nothing is suspicious at first glance. The diners, in clusters of two or four, laugh and talk quietly at their intimately lit tables. My eyes move to Sherlock with a question in them, _'killer here?’_

“Twenty-two Northumberland Street.” Sherlock nods his head towards the window, indicating a building across the way. “Keep your eyes on it.”

I relax a little, dropping my gaze to straighten my jumper that has caught on my gun at the back. Smoothing my hand down the cable knit over my abdomen, my thoughts stray to the mangled body beneath and my shoulder gives a throb; that constant, bitter reminder of my past that flares and retreats but never fully disappears. I glance over at my cane before I lift my eyes to Sherlock again, a small knot of worry forming in my stomach over the thought of getting into a position where I cannot protect him. 

“He isn’t just gonna ring the doorbell, though, is he? He’d need to be mad,” I say casually, looking down. As the words leave my lips, they come back round like a boomerang, hitting me between the eyes with how mad I must be myself to have walked right up and all but rang the doorbell on Sherlock Holmes, knowing just how likely it is to end poorly.

“He has killed four people.” His eyes linger on me with something hot and sharp in their depths and I shift uncomfortably. His stare is boring into me; chasing my thoughts back through the shadows of my history.

“... Okay.” I look him square in the eyes. My hands are fisted on my thighs beneath the table.

I am just about to ask him how much he knows about me and my past when a large, bearded man with slick black hair pulled into a ponytail comes over. 

“Sherlock,” he says with a warm familiarity and there is a slight Italian accent on the edges of his words. He places menus on the table and I watch their bare hands slide together with an itch of irritation blooming beneath my skin. I narrow my eyes on the two of them. 

I have yet to touch Sherlock, to clasp his hand without the barrier of a thick leather glove to obscure all the important details. I hadn't realized how much this felt like a slight until I saw him give that to another so casually. Until now, I had considered him averse to touching _anyone._ Now, it appears it is _just me._

“Anything on the menu. Whatever you want; free,” the man continues. With such a offer, I realize this must be the owner. Sherlock is smiling and it almost seems genuine. He turns to the window just as the owner says, “On the house, for you and for _your date._ ”

_Whoa, now!_

I look up at the man in alarm. 

“Do you want to eat?” Sherlock says quickly, shoving his menu over to me then returning his eyes to the window. He has unbuttoned his jacket, his tight, light blue shirt straining over his chest as he throws his arm over the back of the seat to angle his whole body away from the owner and towards me and the window. He is thrumming with a new intensity and clearly has no intention of correcting the man as to the nature of our association. 

“I'm not his date.” I bristle up at the man, off-kilter and on the defensive again. 

_Why is that an assumption?_

“This man got me off a murder charge,” the owner continues, ignoring my correction, just as Mrs. Hudson and Mr. Controller had.

“This is Angelo,” Sherlock says casually but he scans my pulse at my throat, the set of my jaw and my forehead before meeting my eyes for a fraction of a second. He turns back to the window, giving no indication what he read in my reaction.

Angelo offers his hand to me, and I shake it, then narrow my eyes. His hand is chapped from frequent washing and there are well-worn calluses across his palm from chopping but there are also some older, nearly faded ones on his trigger finger, not unlike the ones on my own. A gun isn't the only way to get such a callus, but given the discussion of 'murder charges'... 

“Three years ago, I successfully proved to Lestrade that, at the time of a particularly vicious triple murder, Angelo was in a completely different part of town, house-breaking.” Sherlock explains distractedly. Obviously noting my tension, his quick glance at me tells me to stand down. Angelo is not a threat.

“He cleared my name,” Angelo continues.

“I cleared it a bit.” The set of Sherlock's jaw and the tightness to the corners of his eyes says he's uncomfortable. 

“Anything happening opposite?” Sherlock nods at the window. Angelo seems unperturbed by both the sudden change in topic and being included in on some sort of surveillance. For a second, he leans forward to look at the building across the street and I watch him closely as his face flickers with something harder and more intense than the jovial restaurant owner he has been portraying himself as. This begs consideration if he is more than they’ve let on. Perhaps, Angelo is another undercover agent?

“Nothing,” Angelo responds with certainty. He turns his eyes back to me and that colder look is gone, replaced with a glowing eagerness to convince me of the virtues of Sherlock. 

“But for this man, I’d have gone to prison.”

“You did go to prison,” Sherlock corrects with a frosty edge to his tone. The muscles in his neck are standing in high relief as he glares out the window. If he hadn't already indicated Angelo was an ally, I would be preparing for a fight from the amount of tension radiating off Sherlock now. Angelo seems to finally pick up on it.

"I’ll get a candle for the table,” Angelo says looking at me with a grin and raised eyebrows. “It’s more romantic.”

“I’m not his date,” I call after him as he walks away, biting back the volume of what wants to be a shout when a woman at a nearby table turns to look at me. I duck my head and grit my teeth, the heat flaring into my cheeks. I shift uncomfortably for a moment, looking down at myself, before I turn a pointed stare on Sherlock. 

_This is getting ridiculous._

“You may as well eat. We might have a long wait,” Sherlock says in a low voice, and he might be trying to placate me but he is also studiously not looking at me. I suspect he can still feel the hot irritation in my stare boring into him.

He flexes his lips minutely and I look down as my own lap as I consider how to broach this topic - how to clarify that it is _not on_ for us playing at having an intimate relationship, not even for a cover story. The idea sets off all kinds of warning bells in my mind. There are _some risks_ I can't take.

Angelo comes back with a small glass bowl containing a lit tea-light. He slides it onto the table. He has the nerve to give me a thumbs-up before turning to walk away again.

“Thanks,” I say tetchily and just barely resist the urge to give him a gesture in return.

It takes me a good fifteen minutes to calm my nerves and organize my thoughts enough to plan an approach. I am halfway through my plate of food when Sherlock’s fidgeting presses me to fill the silence with an attempt at addressing my mounting concerns. As an established threat, the _’most dangerous man’_ Sherlock knows seems a reasonable place to start. So, without ceremony, I launch into trying to get some explanation of Mr. Controller.

“People don’t have arch-enemies.”

Sherlock’s attention is fixed out the window as he drums his fingers on the table. It takes a moment for him to finally look round at me.

“I’m sorry?”

“In real life. There are no arch-enemies in real life. Doesn’t happen.” I lift my eyebrows at him as I shove another bite in my mouth. He watches me do so without breathing or blinking until my mouth closes around the food. Then, he seems to mentally shake himself out of his daze. For a fraction of a second the oddest look passes over his face and then he turns back to the window. 

“Doesn’t it?” His voice sounds completely disinterested. “Sounds a bit dull.” 

“So who did I meet?” I persist. I know there is a reason for all Mr. Controller’s subterfuge and efforts at intimidating me and it only seems right that Sherlock should share that with me so I know what I am getting into.

“What do _real people_ have, then, in their _real lives_?” He is clearly trying to talk round the question, so I roll with it; steer into the skid so I can get at my other concern.

‘Friends; people they know; people they like; people they don’t like... Girlfriends, boyfriends…”

“Yes, well, as I was saying – dull.” 

“You don’t have a girlfriend, then?”

“Girlfriend? No, not really my area,” Sherlock replies flatly, still looking out the window. I hum my understanding and keep my features fixed in calm. However, my heart is hammering high in my chest. I can feel it in my fingertips wrapped around the fork and in the tips of my ears. I think I can even feel it behind my eyeballs. 

“Oh, right.” I lift my eyes to him. I purse my lips and brace myself to make that leap into the fray. “D’you have a boyfriend?”

Sherlock looks round at me so sharply that I get the impression that he did not see this turn of conversation coming, which is thrilling for me, to have outplayed him in his attempt at controlling the conversation and keeping me in the dark.

“Which is fine, by the way.” I say casually. I try to remain calm. My lips feel so dry and I poke my tongue out to wet them. Sherlock narrows his gaze on me and it could light fires with the pure intensity of focus.

“I know it’s fine,” he snaps, glancing to the window as if he might actually prefer to be out there. 

I give him my most ingratiating smile but keep my eyes expectantly on him to show that I am not backing down on this. 

“So you’ve got a boyfriend then?”

“No.”

“Right. Okay.” Well, this is a start. I am still smiling, though it is fixed and awkward now as my thoughts run rapidly through what this means. He is gay, then? He didn’t say men are _‘not his area,’_ just that he doesn’t have a boyfriend. Would that be reason enough for the assumptions by everyone that any male companion is a potential sexual partner? 

“You’re unattached. Like me.” I lean back, then force myself to not retreat by leaning forward again. I look down at my plate, unsure what to say. “Fine.” I clear my throat around the sudden tightness. “Good,” I say, while I really want to punch something instead because that makes things… _complicated._

I shove a bite into my mouth so I don’t have to speak anymore. There is a sinking feeling in my gut that I usually only get when the enemy is about to ambush. I continue eating to calm myself. I feel the tension stretch between us, but I am not sure how to continue the conversation. It seems like a field of landmines. My thoughts are swirling. 

Sherlock looks at me for a moment but then turns his attention out the window again. He tips his head to the side, as if considering what just happened, and then his eyes widen and he looks a little startled as he turns his head towards me again. 

“John, um..." He starts slowly and rather awkwardly, gaining speed as he goes. "I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work...” His eyes are wide in a panic, reflective of my own internal state, and he is almost babbling. “And while I’m flattered by your interest, I’m really not looking for any-” 

“No.” by the time I interrupt him he looks so uncomfortable that I feel like I had lewdly thrust myself upon him. I turn my head briefly to clear my throat, confused how I suddenly became the one pushing for a relationship when I had been trying to put a stop to his casual seductiveness and refusal to address everyone’s assumptions about what our association is.

“No, I’m not asking,” I say firmly. “No.” I fix my gaze on Sherlock with all sincerity. I don’t want that either. _Not at all._

“I’m just saying…” God, what a mess. “It’s all fine,” I repeat lamely. I adjust in my seat, feeling deflated and significantly less relief than I had anticipated with such an outcome.

Sherlock looks at me for a moment, face unreadable, then he nods.

“Good. Thank you.” He turns his attention back to the street. 

I look away, bemused at the whole strange, awkward turn of events. _What was that all about?_ Is it possible that he is just as opposed to the idea of getting involved with someone as I am? Had I misunderstood all those little signals? Perhaps the blatant ignoring of everyone's innuendos was merely discomfort with, or complete disinterest in, anything sexual?

I don’t have time to dwell on my own thoughts for long before Sherlock nods towards the window. 

“Look across the street. Taxi.”

After that, it is pretty much a blur. He is up and running through the door and I am after him, afraid the mad man is going to get himself killed. Something I become certain is a probability the minute he dashes onto the street and nearly gets run over by a car. He is up and over the bonnet and running down the street without even seeming to recognize the danger he just narrowly avoided. 

The taxi, which apparently holds our killer, pulls away. I watch in fascination as Sherlock rapidly works out an intercept route in his head. Then I am chasing him through the streets of London, climbing fire escapes, dashing across rooftops and leaping between bloody high buildings. My heart is pounding in my ears, familiar adrenaline coursing through my veins and my muscles burning with welcome use. Sherlock, the lanky git, easily leaps over obstacles and bounds ahead with a grace that brings to mind a superhero, his coat flapping like a cape out behind him.

“Come on, John,” he urges me. My body begins to remember its _soldier self_ and the streets of London do, indeed, become the battlefield I left behind. The haze of civilian life sheds off me like a thick, wet wool that was weighing me down and my mind becomes sharper and more driven with every step.

Finally, Sherlock races out of a side street. I am a good five paces behind him as he hurls himself into the path of an approaching cab, which screeches to a halt as he crashes hard into the bonnet. I pull up short, gasping, my mind frozen in terror. He never sees this as he is too busy scrabbling in his left coat pocket to pull out some badge. The bloody idiot seems unharmed! He flashes the badge at the driver as he runs to the right hand side of the cab. 

“Police! Open her up!” Panting heavily, he tugs open the rear door and stares in at the passenger. I lurch forward and race to his side, ready to offer my fists (and gun) to any ensuing struggle. However, Sherlock straightens up, sighing in exasperation just as I join him.

“No,” he says, giving me a look heavy with his frustration. When I lift my eyebrows in question, he leans down again to look at the passenger a second time.

“Teeth, tan…” He gestures, irritably, at the man. “What – Californian?” He directs this question at the stunned passenger who does not answer immediately. I have drawn up closer behind Sherlock as he looks down to where a large bag is wedged between the man’s knees and the seat.

“L.A., Santa Monica. Just arrived.” He straightens up again, grimacing. An obvious look of self-recrimination at the error crossing his face. 

“How can you possibly know that?” I ask.

“The luggage.” His brow is furrowed as if this is the plainest thing in the world to see. He looks down at the suitcase on the floor of the cab and points out its luggage label showing that the man has flown from LAX [Los Angeles International Airport] to LHR [London Heathrow Airport]. He turns his sharp gaze on the man in the cab.

“It’s probably your first trip to London, right? Going by your final destination and the route the cabbie was taking you?” 

“Sorry – are you guys the police?” The man finally speaks.

“Yeah,” Sherlock flashes the I.D. badge briefly at the man. “Everything all right?”

“Yeah.” The American offers an uneasy smile. 

Sherlock pauses for a moment, looking him over again, then smiles falsely at the man.

“Welcome to London.”

He immediately turns and strides away as if he owns the whole of the city. I find myself standing in stunned awe, not unlike the passenger across from me. I step closer to the cab door and look in at the passenger. Suspicious eyes look up at me as I take in the bleached white teeth in the tan face. No, I can see now he is obviously not a man that has been in London long enough to commit a string of murders. I square my shoulders, finding it easy to have that air of authority now that I feel the old desert sun heated blood pumping through my veins.

“Any problems, just let us know,” I smile politely and slam the cab door shut. I jog over to where Sherlock has stopped a few yards behind the vehicle. Sherlock’s face is dark and he is all a simmer with agitation. I am still trying to catch my breath and my posture is still inflated with military bravado as I march up to him and stop at arm’s length.

“Basically, just a cab that happened to slow down,” I pant. I am drunk with endorphins, looking up at him from under my brow because it's hard to look at him directly at the moment with his softly flushed face, his pupils wide with adrenaline and his hair wind tousled.

“Basically.” He is biting at his lip, avoiding looking at me, obviously flustered at the fact that he failed to snare the killer.

“Not the murderer.” I keep talking, repeating the obvious and hoping he will at least give me a sharp glare but he is looking everywhere but at me and it prickles at me. I have watched him get struck by a vehicle, twice, I have clamored over roofs and leapt between buildings chasing him, all whilst thinking a confrontation with a serial murderer was around the next bend, and right now I just need to look into his eyes and have him acknowledge that both he and I survived that incredible, ludicrous venture.

“Not the murderer. No.” He looks down at the ground, shifting. He is still panting too. My eyes stray to watch his chest rise and fall for a moment. His pulse, thumping in the exposed column of his neck, is mesmerizing. 

“Wrong country, good alibi.” My heart is hammering against my chest and the need to do something reckless is itching under my skin. My feet take me two steps closer before I halt them, awkwardly stumbling against their compulsion to continue to move me into his space.

“As they go.” He switches the I.D. card from one hand to the other and, before I can stop myself, I am stepping forward to reach for him.

“Hey, where-” I grab the wrist of his hand that holds the ID wallet and pull it up so I can snatch the contents. “Where did you get this?” Between leather glove and wool coat, my index finger slips against a sliver of warm, soft skin of inner wrist and a hammering pulse briefly flutters beneath the pad of my finger. It shoots an indecent pulse of heat through me. My gesture suddenly seems more invasive and intimate than I had intended. “Here.” I pull away, letting his wrist fall from my grasp. I feel that small touch of skin to skin linger as a burning warmth in my fingertips as I open the ID wallet. 

_When did my hands start trembling?_  
_Must be the adrenaline waning._

“Right. Detective Inspector Lestrade?” I read the card aloud. I lift my eyes to him. 

”Yeah. I pickpocket him when he’s annoying.” I look down, grimacing to keep in a laugh. How wonderfully barmy this man is! “You can keep that one, I’ve got plenty at the flat.” Sherlock continues to glance around.

I nod, and stare at the badge a few seconds longer as the adrenaline ebbs, leaving in its wake a soft euphoria and warmth swelling in my chest over the foolish and fantastic adventure we’ve just had. A giggle bubbles its way up through me, shaking me and causing me to tip my head back. I take in that London night sky for a brief moment as the first laughter since... well, since some time before my injury, vibrates through me. 

“What?” 

I tip my head back down and he is looking at me now with his brow furrowed in confusion. And oh, that sets off a little fire cracker behind my rib cage, fizzing and crackeling.

_Shit._

“Nothing.” I try to shake it off and pull myself back from that too careless dizzines.“Just: ‘Welcome to London.’” I smile up at him from beneath my brow and a smile creeps onto his lips. He chuckles softly. It is a beautiful, deep, musical thing. He looks down the road to where a police officer has gone to investigate why the cab has stopped in the middle of the road. The Californian is out, pointing towards us. 

“Got your breath back?” His eyes turn back to me and the edges have softened on his expression. There is a hint of smile lingering on his lips and in the corners of his eyes as they cling to me.

“Ready when you are.”

We turn and run into the London night.


	8. Game

People tend to believe, for the sake of their own feeble grasp on the complex reality around them, that the world can be reduced to black and white. That there is _right_ and _wrong,_ good and evil, and the line between the two is distinct and immutable. 

Men like Sherlock and I know differently. 

We have been both instruments of death and instruments of peace. 

We have killed and saved lives and we have, I suspect, both struggled with what that means about our true nature.

The truth is, the world is made up of an alarming amount of gray and the line that we all cling to is forever in flux. Nothing is constant, not even the truths that we like to believe define us. All it takes is a moment to shake you to your foundation, strip you down and remake you.

My veins are full of fire and my heart is hammering against the inside of my chest as we dash into the night. I feel more alive than I have in ages. For once it doesn't feel like I am running _away from_ something but _towards it_. 

Sherlock’s lean figure darts before me as some kind of dark phantom, gathering shadows around himself as a black cloak - becoming one with the shades of the city. Away from the pale lights of street lamps and shop windows, our path carries us through darker alleys and forgotten places, empty of life except the shadows that seem to shift and breathe.

“Come on, John.” Now that our quarry is lost his backwards glances and words have become less commanding and demanding. They have turned almost playful; taunting and enticing. I come to the conclusion that, for this short interlude, I have become _the game._

He is testing me. 

That somehow feels more dangerous than chasing down a murderer.

I lose sight of him in the amorphous darkness between two tall buildings. My feet pound rapidly against the wet pavement and my heart thuds in my ears. My mind is stretching ahead, trying to plan a path back to Angelo’s. If the objective is to intercept him, as we had done to the cab, then he has me at a disadvantage. I am not nearly as familiar with the layout of London as he has shown himself to be. However, my skill in using the stars to navigate is an asset that saved my arse a time or two in my army days. 

I slow to look up at the stars, clear and cold against the murky black of night. I have just traced the pointer stars on the Plough to the North Star when a flicker of movement in the corner of my eye causes me to drop my chin and turn. Before I have fully twisted to see what is there, a dark shape is crashing into me and I am thrown sideways, slamming into the rough brick wall.

It knocks the breath out of me. In the pitch darkness of the alley, I see nothing of my attacker. There’s a brief scuffle. I get in a blow to the figure’s abdomen and a kick to his shin before I recognize that I am wrestling with Sherlock, _(the mad bastard)_. I reign back my counter attack. _After all, this isn't a fight for life._ However, I quickly revise that assessment when I feel something cool and thin pressed to my throat. 

_Shit. He’s pulled his blade._

I freeze. He has a grasp on my left hand, pinning it to the wall, and my right hand is fisted in the lapel of his coat. I let go slowly and lift my right hand, palm out in surrender.

“A bit rusty,” he drawls, leaning over me. “What a shame.” The smugness drips from his words. I can just make out the satisfied smirk curling his lips on his pale face. The cool, blunt pressure draws over my throat and it feels… _odd._ I Iook down and chuckle, relaxing when I discover the 'blade' pressed to my throat is actually one leather-clad finger in a convincing imitation of a knife. 

_Bollocks. Got me good._

There is a term for when superiors are giving training troops a hard time for no reason; _’belt fed cock.’_ This phrase leaps to mind now and a warm flush crawls from my chest to my cheeks. My embarrassment over how he's fooled me into surrendering (to a bloody finger against my throat, of all things) is only compounded by the suggestive nature of my thoughts. I lean my head back, hair catching on the rough brick, and grin up at the night sky. My breaths are somewhere between panting and laughter. 

“You're just lucky I realized it was you, you bastard. Almost gave you a lot more than a bunch of fives,” I glare down my nose at him but I am too amused and delighted with the absurdity of this to have much heat to it. This is the best pure, mad fun I've had in ages - even if he is taking the piss out of me.

“Luck,” Sherlock clicks his tongue sharply. There is threat and challenge in his tone that makes me dip my chin, my eyes snapping to him and my grin dissolving. Just like that, the mood has shifted. He is leaning forward, his forearm across my chest, pressing me more forcefully against the wall. “Has nothing to do with it.” 

I can almost taste his breath in my own mouth; sweet tobacco and spiced tea. His eyes are inky pools, so dark and intense they are like black holes, pulling in all the light. I hold my breath; trying not to let his stare and the air from his lungs invade me, like some succubus that could curl inside me and put me under his spell. My head is swirling, my lungs burn but I can't look away. Can't breathe. Can't move. He is studying me and the space between us is shrinking with each heartbeat. 

_Fuck._  
_What the hell is he doing?_  
_He's going to-_  
_Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._

I teeter there. Uncertain. Waiting for him to make his final move - not sure how I will react if he does what I dread - what I crave. 

“John.” 

_Shit._

I turn my shoulder in. My arm sweeps down between us. The meat of my forearm meets his arm below the elbow. It breaks his hold on my wrist. I grab his arm. Duck under it. Twist. Thrust. 

I'm standing behind him, his arm twisted up his back and his cheek pressed against the wall. His only response is a grunt of surprise tinged with a hint of intrigue. 

“See there, you were right.” It feels pretty damn good to have turned the tables on him, so I relish it. I push into him a little harder. “Not _luck_ \- _mercy._ ” His arm slides up his back with little resistance and no sounds of protest or discomfort. 

I mentally take note, _’Extremely flexible. Perhaps, double jointed.’_

I am forced to stand quite close to him to maintain any lock on his arm. My chest is nearly pressed against his back. I feel his shoulders shift with each breath. 

“Don't expect me to continue to be so merciful,” I chide, pouring the words directly into his ear. It comes out more gravelly than I intend. My grip around his wrist has slipped with his contortion and the blade of my hand is against the warm, delicate skin of his wrist. I can feel his pulse thumping rapidly. It makes my chest tight. 

I pull back as he twists to look over his shoulder at me. His eyes are sparkling and there is that sibylline smile pulling at his lips again. It's squeezes my chest tighter and I can’t say if it is fear, irritation or anticipation. 

“Oh, John.” His voice is a divine mixture of scorn and scoffing; provocative and mysterious in a way that has all my nerves buzzing. “I'd be disappointed if you did.” 

It happens so fast that it takes my brain a moment to catch up to it. A push off the wall. A strike to the inside of my leg with the heel of his free hand. A twist into my hold. A shoulder into my sternum. I stumble.

Suddenly, I am sprawled on my arse in the alley watching him run towards the adjoining street. His rapid footfall echoes through the alley. 

“Come along, John,” Sherlock calls over his shoulder. The lamp light is haloing his silhouette like the shadow of the moon eclipsing the sun. 

_Fucking brilliant._

I scramble to my feet and resume the chase; laughter and curses playing on my lips with equal fervor.


	9. Snake Pit

We burst through the door of 221 Baker Street with all the joyous revelry of children having had a good romp; the entire city as our playground. It is an even draw on who won our little game, but we are both breathless, high on adrenaline and spent in the most exquisitely satisfying way. 

My whole body is flushed and, underneath my jumper, I can feel sweat sliding down my back between my shoulder blades. I shed my jacket and hang it on a hook by the door, keeping Sherlock in my peripheral vision. I track him as he drapes his own coat over the bottom of the bannister. 

He has a beautiful looseness to his movements now. His constant defensiveness has relaxed out of his shoulders and spine, giving way to a graceful fluidity. The fact that he is setting aside any weapon, hidden within his coat, feels like a significant shift in relations. We've apparently crossed some threshold of trust. 

He is (metaphorically as well as quite literally) surrendering his armament, bit by bit.

“Okay.”

I keep my head down and press my eyes closed as I fall back against the wall, grappling internally with this revelation. The relaxation of boundaries feels riskier than that cautious and threatening exterior he'd worn up until this point. 

When his shoulder comes to rest beside mine, so close I can feel his muscles flexing, my heart does a little skip dash, like a feeble attempt at a Morse code SOS distress signal. To say this is the kind of casual intimacy I haven’t experienced since the army is an understatement. 

I can hear his heavy breathing, synchronized to mine. It feels as though even his heart is thumping in time with my own; shaking the world around us. 

With the endorphins from our run, my pounding heart and my swirling thoughts, I'm feeling dizzy. 

I clench and unclench my fists. My whole body is tingling with a swelling desire to tackle him and have that row I had been playing out in my mind since he first sauntered towards me in that basement lab of Bart's. 

However, the nature of that imagined encounter has changed drastically; morphing from two skilled adversaries pummeling each other bloody, to the kind of matches we’d sometimes have among the boys in our barrack to relieve the tension and pass the agonizing days of _the calm_. 

We’d called them _‘FC Nights,’_ after the movie _Fight Club,_ where men secretly got together to beat the shit out of each other just so they could remember how to feel. However, since it wouldn’t have benefited any of us to do enough damage to a fellow soldier for them to be biffed, FC Nights weren’t violent brawls. They were little more than a _’snake pit.’_ Which is, to say, two men tangled together, like snakes in a pit, twisting and slithering around each other until one got a lock or hold strong enough for the other to tap out. 

Glancing over at Sherlock out of the corner of my eye, I can see the rise and fall of his lightly muscled chest, the thud of his pulse in his sinewy neck, the soft sheen of perspiration that makes all his skin have a glow. I shift my feet under myself, fighting the urge that is crawling under my skin, like an itch I can't scratch, to grab him and push him to the ground. The image of him grappling, contorting and slithering in a raw tangle as we struggle for dominance is... _quite enticing._

_Oh, god, what am I thinking?_  
_Bit not good, Watson_

I tip my head back to stare at the ceiling as I put my palm against my chest, trying to slow the erratic thundering of my heart. 

_Need to get it together, Watson._  
_Need to get yourself under control._

“That… was... _ridiculous._ ” I declare this more to myself, as a reminder how ludicrous my current situation has become. Shady abductors, serial killers and high level terrorists threats aside, Sherlock is the most dangerous and illogical thing I have ever entangled myself with in a long career of questionable and self-destructive decisions. 

Sherlock shifts beside me, leaning back and unbuttoning his suit jacket. The smile playing at his lips, though not directed at me, is not put on either. It hints at a deep and pure satisfaction. 

“That was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done.” It _needs_ repeating, embellishing even, because this isn't just foolishness, it's utterly nutters. God help me, Sherlock is fearless and indecent, bizarre and brilliant, powerful and wonderfully wrong _in all the right ways._ I must be insane to keep finding myself drawn to his side. 

“And you invaded Afghanistan.” Sherlock’s tone is matter-of-fact as he leans over a little closer to me. I look up and catch his gaze. There, within those stunning silver-green depths, beneath the sparks of amusement, is that curl of something like satisfaction and a bit of proud camaraderie. As if he can't help but congratulate himself for finding the one person in all of London mental enough to embrace his own special brand of insanity. 

His expression says nothing so well as _‘Yes, you're entirely bonkers, John Watson, but you’re in good company.’_

I begin to laugh, shaking my head in amusement at the absurdity of the pair of us.

“That wasn’t just me.” He is laughing too now; a deep, satisfied chuckle overlaying and tangling with my near hysterical giggle. It is a swelling, child-like joy and, god, how long has it been since I just laughed? Ages.

His shoulders shake sending the vibration of his laughter through me like the deep thrum of a tuning fork struck. I can almost feel the rumble of it in my own mouth and he is _too damn close._ But too far away. And my jumper is too bloody hot. I press my eyes closed again and swallow hard. 

As the giggling dies down, bodies side by side in the hall by his front door, my mind starts to stray. Wandering to wonder.

It's late - getting on near midnight. By ingrained army habit I'm an early riser, so I typically would have retired to bed hours ago. I should put back on my jacket, march out into the cold night, flag a cab and endure the long ride back to my little bedsit _but..._

I look past Sherlock to the stairs and straighten my spine.

_Could be dangerous, indeed._

“Why aren’t we back at the restaurant?” I narrow my eyes on Sherlock.

_Why are we here?_  
_Alone, at your flat..._  
_In the middle of the night…_  
_Sweaty… and drunk on adrenaline…_  
_And standing... So. Bloody. Close…_

No doubt sensing my tension, Sherlock makes an effort to appear as relaxed as possible

“Oh, they can keep an eye out.” He waves his hand dismissively. “It was a long shot anyway.”

I pause, trying to work out Sherlock's shift in story. He'd been adamant - certain we could catch the killer when we'd set out, but now he's pretending as if it was all just a bit of fun. 

A cold uneasiness swells inside me; a sneaking suspicion that something is not right about Sherlock's tracking of the killer and what he's withheld from me about the case so far... but I can't quite put my finger on what bothers me.

“So…” I move my eyes to him. “What were we doing there?”

Sherlock clears his throat and looks down at the floor, pushing his hands into his pockets. He is trying to be casual but the uneasiness shows in the purse of his lips and the straightness of his shoulders and spine. That natural wariness is slipping back over him.

“Oh, just passing the time.” He looks at me and he has that searching and weighing quality; gathering in and analyzing everything about me; measuring risk against benefit. Something about the flexing of his lips is _almost_... vulnerable; unsure. It makes the hairs stand up on the back of my neck.

His expression suddenly lightens, flaring with a brilliant certainty of revelation, and he lifts his chin. He has come to a decision. 

“And proving a point.”

Alarm bells are clanging in the back of my mind but I am frozen, holding my breath and waiting. Given what he deduced about me in the first five minutes after meeting, I am somewhere between thrilled and terrified to know what unspoken truths he has unearthed about me in the last hour together. There is a tightening in my chest, making it hard to breathe - near impossible to spit out the question I am afraid to ask - _have to ask._

“What point?” 

“You.”

One word and it feels devastating and profound... like my complete undoing. I blink at him, trying to keep my shock and alarm hidden beneath a blank mask. 

For an agonizingly long moment his eyes are locked on mine and the weight of all that is unspoken within that gaze is suffocating. Then he breaks his hold over me to turn towards the door of Mrs. Hudson’s flat.

“Mrs Hudson? Doctor Watson will take the room upstairs,” he announces. 

It is a familiar echo of that moment in the lab when he announced that we were getting a flat together. A blatant demand that will pull me in… _unless_ I put up active resistance.

“Says who?” I narrow my eyes on him and set my jaw, trying to grapple back control of this situation. 

Sherlock seems unperturbed by my efforts to object. His eyes turn back on me for only a second and they are unwavering, resolute and confident, with a new, dangerous charge electrifying their depths. Everything about his expression says he has gotten hold of something that he intends to keep and anyone opposed will have to fight him for it. I nearly shudder to realize that fierce and determined gaze is for me.

“Says the man at the door.” He looks past me to the doorway.

As I turn, there are three loud thumps on the front door. A new jolt of adrenaline shoots through me and I suck in a breath. 

It feels prophetic, like the rap, tap, tapping of the _nevermore raven_. 

I turn back to Sherlock and study him for a few seconds, trying to read who it is at the door by his expression. His smile is something I haven't seen before; enigmatic. There is a serene curl of lips and an element of triumph and possessiveness within his eyes, like he has just claimed my most valuable chess piece and called ‘check-mate’ on me. It sets all my skin prickling with heat. I hasten to open the door if only to get a breath free of the heavy crackle of tension charging the space between us. 

I am startled to find Angelo standing on the stoop. Given the questionable history of the man, I instinctively tense, squaring my shoulders and lowering my stance in preparation for a possible attack. Angelo smiles, his eyebrows lifting ever so slightly and a small, knowing smile shifting his thick beard. His obsidian black eyes glitter at me and he nods as if to say, _‘ah, I see what he sees in you.’_

“Sherlock texted me. He said you forgot this.” Angelo tosses my cane smoothly from one hand to the other and tilts it towards me.

What escapes my lips is something between a gasp and a quiet snort. 

_Shit._

I glance down at my leg, finding that the ever present twinge of pain is oddly absent. 

_First the tremor. Now, my leg._

I stand there, gazing at my own cane as every wall I thought I'd built to define, contain and protect myself crumbles, like it was only ever sand in the desert wind. It's disorientating to, after thirty-one years, find everything you thought to know about yourself, the hard points that you always considered to define you, in flux; changing so rapidly and completely that you can't be sure who you are any more, and who you might become in the next moment. 

“Uh...Thank you. Thank you,” I say numbly as I reach out and take my cane. It is cold and foreign in my hand. 

My mind is racing; brimming over like an overfull kettle on high boil. I close the door and brace myself against it for a breath before turning to confront Sherlock. However, as I open my mouth to speak, Mrs. Hudson rushes out of her flat. She is visibly shaken, her hands clutched together and trembling. Her eyes and voice are wet and tearful.

“Sherlock, what have you done?” Her eyes cut to me a moment and I get the sense she feels I have brought something horrible upon Sherlock.

“Mrs Hudson?” 

She turns her eyes back on Sherlock and shakes her head back and forth; something silently passes between them.

“Upstairs.”

Sherlock turns and hurries up the stairs. I catch Mrs. Hudson's hard stare for only a second before I follow Sherlock with a lingering sense of dread making my body heavy. 

Sherlock is arguing before he even steps in the room, a tense fury roiling off of him. I step in behind him and let my eyes sweep over the scene, gaging the threat. 

Six people total. Perhaps more out of sight. DI Lestrade is seated in the armchair facing the door. Two other people are in the sitting room, three people are in the kitchen. Some are in police uniform, others are plain clothes. They all pay us little mind, hardly glancing up from what they are doing, which appears to be the methodical ransacking of the flat. 

My fists clench at my sides and I tip my chin down, keeping my back to the wall between kitchen and entry door. My eyes are hard and cold on Lestrade who is reclined in Sherlock’s chair like he owns the place. His demeanor is calm and unaffected by Sherlock shouting at him.

“You can’t just break into my flat,” Sherlock is growling. His agitation seems genuine and it sets me on edge. 

“And you can’t withhold evidence.” Lestrade’s gaze flicks to me and he looks me over with more interest. 

My irritation swells until I am practically seething. I clench my jaw and lift my chin. Clearly, this is some lame attempt at intimidation at best or blackmail or punishment at worst. You don't come begging a highly skilled agent to help you do _your job_ then bust his balls a couple hours later by tossing his place. It's just poor form.

Lestrade grimaces, shifting in his seat. Whatever he sees in me he doesn't like. That suits me just fine, because I'm thinking he's lucky I respect his badge because I can't say the same for the man behind it at the moment.

His eyes move back to Sherlock and he's obviously more uncomfortable.

“And I didn’t break into your flat.”

“Well, what do you call this then?” Sherlock gestures sharply at the people pawing through his belongings.

Lestrade looks round at his officers before looking back to Sherlock, his face taking on the expression of cool apathy. “It’s a drugs bust.”

The way Sherlock's body jerks and stiffens, as if he's been physically struck, sets me off.

“Seriously?! This guy, a junkie?! Have you met him?!” I step forward, ready to throw the whole lot out on their arses, charges be damned.

Sherlock turns and is swiftly in my space, standing close and leaning down over me. “John…”

I assume he is trying to dissuade me from defending him but this situation is so absurd and I'm frustrated with the whole game. I lean around to continue arguing with Lestrade over his shoulder.

“I’m pretty sure you could search this flat all day and you wouldn’t find anything you could call recreational.”

“John,” Sherlock leans closer. “You probably want to shut up now.”

“Yeah, but come on…” I look up at him and our eyes lock. They are blazing, sharp with warning. He is so incredibly still that I know this is deadly serious.

I lift my eyebrows in question. 

_A cover?_

But his mouth is set in a thin, irritated line and his bottom lip is caught between his teeth as if he is frustrated and… _embarrassed?_

_Shit._

My stomach drops, my fury at Lestrade dying in a swirl of confusion and second hand agony.

 _What hell had he gone through to turn to drugs and risk destroying that beautiful mind?_  
_What scars does he wear on his skin and below, where no one can see them?_  
_What could make a man, so disciplined and constrained, surrender his faculties and lose all self-control to a narcotic?_

_And how did he come to be held hostage to those missteps by petty men, like this DI and, perhaps, Mr. Controller?_

I am completely still, every wound on my body and every scar upon my soul screaming their pain anew in sympathy. As if, sensing their reflection in Sherlock, has made them as potent as when they first were inflicted. An echo chamber amplifying and harmonizing our kindred pain until it is a solid note, so clear and sharp it is almost beautiful.

The silence grows thick and charged between us as Sherlock watches my face intensely, reading all the questions and emotions I can't help revealing. He looks like he did in the back of the cab after he'd told me his methods for deducing me; exposed and expectant. 

My eyes drop to his neck and I'm struck by the odd thought that it’s like staring at the inverse of the night sky. The smattering of black beauty marks there are like a constellation. He has become the North Star: solid and sure as my life, my world, my sense of self are all shifting around him.

I drag my eyes back up and he is looking back at me as if somewhere deep inside the genius MI6 agent, that fears neither serial killers nor international terrorists, is something small - frightened and hopeful - reaching out to me.

_Shit. So screwed._

“No.”

“What?” 

I breathe through my nose and try to focus on his eyes. 

“You.”

He looks surprised for only a moment before he glances to the side, seeming to recognize where we are. Then the shields slide back over his eyes. Not the time for this, his expression says.

“Shut up.” He whirls away, charging back towards Lestrade.

“I’m not your sniffer dog,” I hear Sherlock say distantly. I know I should be paying attention but the world has narrowed down to a tunnel now, and gone silent except for the whir of my own thoughts. I watch, dazed, as Sherlock paces back and forth, arguing passionately with Lestrade, and my chest aches with a different sort of squeezing sensation, like someone has clenched a fist around my heart.

It is painful and disconcerting, this ‘being alive’ _thing._ Truth be told, I hadn't been alive for months now. A part of me had died that day I'd been shot… or perhaps I'd been dying for those agonizing months before - slowly bleeding the humanity out of me until I was a walking ghost. Now, reawakening to myself hurts.

“Keep looking, guys.” I come back to myself and finally pull my eyes off of Sherlock to see Lestrade rising to his feet. He turns to Sherlock, leaning forward. “Or you could help us properly and I’ll stand them down.”

Sherlock is pacing angrily and he looks so young and frustrated that I want to break something. 

“This is childish,” he mutters bitterly.

“Well, I’m dealing with a child.” I look sharply at Lestrade but he is paying me no mind. He is stepping closer to Sherlock with an air of confidence of having got him cornered and he knows it. “Sherlock, this is _our_ case. I’m letting you in, but you do not go off on your own. Clear?”

I purse my lips to keep in venomous words that I want to unleash on the DI. They burn like bile in the back of my throat. I want to scoff and swear at the DI. Sherlock is saving his arse by using his considerable skill to solve a case that NSY cannot and yet the DI is making it sound like Sherlock should be falling at his feet in gratitude. I want to give him a graphic demonstration on where he can shove that patronizing bullshite but I know that would hardly be doing Sherlock any favors.

“Oh, what, so you set up a pretend drugs bust to bully me?”

“It stops being pretend if they find anything.”

“I am clean!” Sherlock bellows through gritted teeth. He stops pacing to glare at Lestrade.

“Is your flat? All of it?” 

Sherlock shifts, glancing around. I wonder how far this might go. Would they plant something and arrest us just to flex their muscles and teach Sherlock a lesson? Half the cops standing around are plain clothes detectives so this can't be an official drugs bust. In fact, two of them (a detective named Donovan and a forensic pathologist named Anderson) still wear the bitter scowls Sherlock left on their faces at the crime scene when their attempts to verbally attack and belittled him ended in their own humiliation. It is easy to believe they'd have little trouble fabricating some evidence to get some form of petty payback.

“I don’t even smoke,” Sherlock mumbles as he unbuttons his left cuff of his shirt and pulls it up to show a nicotine patch on his lower arm.

“Neither do I.” Lestrade pulls up the right sleeves of his own jacket and shirt to show a similar patch on his arm. He holds his arm beside Sherlock's as if that proves they are the same; comrades. “So let’s work together.” 

Sherlock rolls his eyes and turns away to button his sleeve. As he does so he catches my eye and winks. There is amusement in his expression. It's a look that says _‘don't worry, John, they're idiots. I've got it well in hand.’_

_Clever bastard._

I realize what he's done. He's just shown the one patch - not the two others I know to be higher up on his arm. It is clever, really - hiding in plain sight. It’s the equivalent of copping to burglary to avoid a murder charge. He's manipulated the DI into believing that he's succeeded in forcing Sherlock's hand but the truth is Sherlock is two steps ahead. I nearly snort in laughter at how he's duped the DI. A warmth curls through me at this truth, only shared between us, like an inside joke. I look down and rock on my toes, trying to hide my smirk until I can wipe it from my face. 

Lestrade is quick to take advantage of Sherlock's apparent resignation. He swiftly shifts focus onto his yet unsolved serial suicide case.

I can't help but think that if he'd spent his time trying to do some good, old-fashioned police work instead of amassing forces to badger Sherlock with a fake drugs bust, he might have made some significant progress.

As it turns out, Rachel, the name the lady in pink had scratched into the floor as she was dying, was her stillborn daughter from fourteen years ago.

I think about what that must be like; in your final moments to think back to someone you'd loved so deeply. It hadn't been like that for me. There was no one's name on my lips as I took what I was sure would be my final rasping breaths.

Sherlock, on the other hand, seems confused and disturbed by this revelation. He is pacing wildly, frustrated and certain that she wouldn't painstakingly carve the name of a child she'd lost so long ago as her last act.

I try to help bridge the gap by suggesting that maybe the killer used the death of her daughter to get the victim to take the poison.

Sherlock stops and whirls around on me. He narrows his vision steps closer and, in that moment, it's like there is no one but us.

“Yeah, but that was ages ago. Why would she still be upset?” Everyone in the room freezes and it is a tangible air of discomfort and disapproval. I blink at Sherlock. We both know there is a different, darker sort of reality for people like us. There is no being sentimental about death and the things people do when faced with it when you've seen it as many times as we have. Still, there are some things you don't say in polite company. Sherlock glances around the room and then looks at me, his mouth tight. He leans in, studying me.

“Not good?” 

I glance around at the others before turning back to Sherlock. “Bit not good, yeah.”

Sherlock looks like he's beyond caring. He shakes it off and steps closer to me, looking at me intensely.

“Yeah, but if you were dying ... if you’d been murdered: in your very last few seconds what would you say?” I blink up at him and surprise even myself by answering completely honestly.

“Please, God, let me live.”

“Oh, use your imagination!” 

He thinks I'm being glib. I couldn't be more serious.

“I don’t have to.” I am unable to hold back all the pain and darkness that must haunt my expression. The memory of desperate moments stretching out into an agony of knowing... all you were, all you ever _could be_ is ending. 

He doesn't look away. Instead I see recognition flash in his eyes and my own pain reflected back at me. He pauses momentarily and blinks a couple of times, shifting his feet, trying to get his bearings again.

Then he does the thing you do in battle when another man has slipped out of soldier mode into something too honest and real, you pull back and refocus them on the job at hand. He turns away, releasing us both from that moment of shared pain.

“Yeah, but if you were clever, really clever ... Jennifer Wilson running all those lovers: she was clever.” He starts to pace again.

It takes a few moments to pull myself back from that swarm of emotion and memory. Ultimately, it's the distress in Mrs. Hudson's voice that calls me to provide some answers, if not much comfort.

“Oh, dear. They’re making such a mess. What are they looking for?”

“It’s a drugs bust, Mrs Hudson.” She looks nearly as alarmed as Sherlock and her hand grabs at her own hip.

“But they’re just for my hip,” She glances around anxiously but it hasn't passed my notice that she is speaking quite loudly. I get a sense she is pulling a move from Sherlock's playbook - confessing to lesser crimes to try to drag the attention of NSY away from the real concern, what they might find if they look too hard at Sherlock. “They’re herbal soothers.” 

Sherlock puts an end to her falling on the proverbial sword or any other misguided efforts she might make to protect him by shouting loud enough to get the whole room’s attention on him.

“Shut up, everybody, shut up! Don’t move, don’t speak, don’t breathe. I’m trying to think. Anderson, face the other way. You’re putting me off.” 

I nearly snort at that. More so when Lestrade bows to Sherlock's eccentric demands and orders Anderson to turn his back. It's all quite entertaining and Sherlock is in full glory as the center of the spectacle.

He unravels the mystery for the awestruck police force like a slow tease, all the while insulting them at every turn. He has them hanging on his every word and I can only watch him, admiring his cunning and skill.

He enlightens us that Jennifer Wilson didn’t lose her phone, she planted it on her killer so we could track him and left us the key in the name, Rachel. 

He is having far too much fun torturing Lestrade, so I jump in to chivvy him along towards revealing the killer. 

In short order, Sherlock is sitting down at the desk looking at Mephone’s website on his computer. He types the email address I read out from Jennifer Wilson's luggage tag into the ‘User name’ box as he explains that she had a smartphone with GPS, which means we can locate her phone, still with her killer, by using the email’s website. 

_Clever._  
_If we can't bring him to us we'll go to him._

I walk over to stand behind him with a certain amount of pride swelling in me for his dazzling intelligence. 'Rachel' is the password - a fact only I seem to have discerned as no one else responds to his call for us all to fill in the blank.

"... And the password is, all together now...?"

As we wait for the website to locate her phone, the house once again becomes a flurry of activity. Mrs. Hudson comes to the door again, talking about a taxi. Sherlock gets up to shoo her off. Then he starts making plans with Lestrade on how to mobilize the police force. Sherlock is getting flustered and impatient now, practically vibrating with eagerness to close the net on the killer.

I sit down on the chair which Sherlock vacated and watch the clock spinning round on the website as it claims that the phone will be located in under three minutes. 

“Sherlock” On the computer, a map has appeared and it is now zooming in on the location of the phone. Sherlock continues to argue with Lestrade over if the GPS location will be enough. “Sherlock,” I call again.

“What is it?” He hurries across the room and leans down over my shoulder to stare at the screen. It is abnormally close and I think I can feel his chest against my shoulder. “Quickly. Where?”

I swallow and focus on the map on the screen, now indicating the precise location of the phone. Zoomed in on… _our location?_

“It’s here. It’s in two two one Baker Street,” I stare at the screen, trying to understand if it could have gone wrong somehow. Sherlock seems as baffled as I. 

Lestrade, habitually unhelpful bloke that he has proven to be, suggests it was in the case when Sherlock brought it back and it fell out somewhere in the flat. Even though I note that we'd contacted the killer on it and got a return call, he sets all the officers to further ransacking the place to find it.

At this point, Sherlock goes somewhat catatonic. He freezes, his eyes going glassy and distant as they snap over the room before him, setting nothing. He spins slowly on the spot, turning this way and that, as if chasing thoughts that swirl around him. I try not to stare but really, I've never seen anything quite like it. Though, I'd seen enough men having PTSD episodes to know such things take many forms. 

“Sherlock, you okay?”

“What?” He says vaguely. He's got his phone in his hand now, looking down at it and there is an expression on his face… a realization dawning. He turns fully towards the door where Mrs. Hudson stands, her fingers hovering nervously at her lips but I get the sense he is not really seeing her. “Yeah, yeah, I-I’m fine.”

It's perhaps the least convincing lie he has told me thus far.

“So, how can the phone be here?” I ask, trying to refocus him on the present.

“Dunno,” he says, not turning towards me and it is very disconcerting how off he seems.

I stand up, but I'm not sure what to do. Psychology is not my area and if this is some sort of PTSD episode, due too much pressure and stimulus, approaching him could only exhasberate it, making him feel more threatened. 

“I’ll try it again,” I say, fetching my own phone out of my jeans pocket.

“Good idea.” And as if I'd just suggested he leave instead, he heads for the door.

“Where are you going?”

“Fresh air. Just popping outside for a moment. Won’t be long.” His voice is still distant with distraction.

I reason that it makes sense that, if he overwhelmed, he would want space... but something isn't sitting right. There is a cold pebble of uneasiness in my gut and an irrational urge to run after him that I must tamp down.

“You sure you’re all right?”

"I’m fine,” he says sharply, quickly jogging down the stairs. I hear the door slam and I sigh. That uneasy feeling grows into a solid brick, heavy and prickly, in my gut.

I naturally gravitate to the window and gaze down at the street below as I call Jennifer Wilson's phone again. I listen to the ring tone as I watch Sherlock step off the stoop and approach a cabbie who is leaning casually against his taxi. It could just be a polite chat but I can tell, even from up here, that Sherlock is doing that thing he does with his shoulders when he tries to act casual but is actually preparing for a fight. His body is angled to the side so he can easily dodge any attack and his stride forward is careful, keeping a cautious distance between himself and the other man. 

He glances over his shoulder towards the flat a couple times but never looks up at me. 

They appear to have a heated exchange as the cabbie moves around the front of the car. Then the cabbie gets into the driver's seat. After a pause, Sherlock stiffly leans down and gazes through the passenger window. A few more seconds of chatting through the window, in which Sherlock's body language grows even more defensively rigid, then Sherlock gets in the taxi and it pulls away.

“He just got in a cab.” I turn to Lestrade with a questioning look, hoping he can offer some explanation. He stares blankly back at me. “It’s Sherlock. He just drove off in a cab.” I gesture towards the window.

“I told you, he does that.” Donavon seethes with irritation and disgust as she turns towards Lestrade, as if he is personally responsible. “He bloody left again.” She marches back into the kitchen, talking loudly to anyone who will listen. “We’re wasting our time!”

That sinking feeling in my gut has turned into a boulder with all sharp edges. After trying the phone again and it just ringing out, Lestrade finally concludes that what I told him from the start is true, _the phone isn't in the flat._

Hoping it was just a fluke that the initial try for a location came up as 221B, (and because doing something feels better than doing nothing) I return to the computer and start the GPS search for the phone again.

Donovan, always the ray of sunshine, seems to have lathered herself up into a proper fury. She flies back out of the kitchen to confront Lestrade. 

“Does it matter? Does any of it? You know, he’s just a lunatic, and he’ll always let you down, and you’re wasting your time. All our time.”

I grip the mouse, clench my jaw and stare straight at the computer so I don't do or say something I might regret. 

After a tense silence I hear Lestrade sigh in resignation. He calls for everyone to leave and they all bumble out, having accomplished nothing aside from leaving the place worse for wear.

After everyone has cleared out, Lestrade picks up his coat and turns to me with his brow scrunched in confusion as he slides it on.

“Why did he do that? Why did he have to leave?” 

I consider the question, feeling mystified myself. I try to recall some clue that would indicate why a need for ‘some air’ turned into a chat with a cabbie and a taxi ride to god-knows-where. I can't shake the memory of how foggy and dazed he looked or the image of his shoulders and spine so straight right before he slipped into the back of the taxi - like a soldier steeling himself to march into battle. 

“You know him better than I do,” I say with an uneasy shrug. 

“I’ve known him for five years and... no, _I don’t.”_

I am startled by this admission. Perhaps Lestrade is not so poor a detective afterall if he senses the natural level of understanding Sherlock and I have after only a few hours and can see that it is something that he certainly hasn't (and likely never will) achieve. 

I decide it is not worth denying but also not something I am willing to talk about - I don't altogether understand it myself. Instead, I shift the spotlight back on Lestrade.

“So why do you put up with him?”

“Because I’m desperate, that’s why.” 

I can respect him a bit more now that he admits that. What's more, there is something regretful in his eyes. I can't help but wonder what Sherlock was like in those five years they'd known each other before I met him. What makes these two men interact the way they do?

Lestrade walks to the door, then turns back.

“And because Sherlock Holmes is a _great man.”_ His expression has something almost hopeful and entreating, as if he thinks I might hold a solution he desperately needs. “And I think one day, if we’re very, very lucky, he might even be a _good one.”_

He turns and leaves me with that thought hanging heavily in the air of the empty flat. I can't help but think, _‘He already is far better than you give him credit for and you'll likely never know it.’_

I turn back to the room and glance around at all the things cluttering every surface. None of them are mine. Suddenly, I feel very much like I've let myself into someone else's flat and staying feels like a violation of privacy. 

It is dejá vú, really, him leaving me in places I shouldn't be, but for him. I can't help but recall what happened last time when he'd run off at the crime scene with hardly a word. It had turned out he had disappeared for the case; her case. He'd gone looking for evidence. 

_That utter twat._

As I lean down to pick up my cane, it all clicks. And like the universe giving me a proverbial light bulb dinging to accompany my sudden insight, the computer beeps to indicate it has located Mrs. Wilson's phone again. 

The little blinking dot is moving! 

It is slowly but surely weaving down the streets away from 221B.

“Oh,” I exhale, picking up the computer.


	10. Instincts

Instincts.

Time and time again, it is instincts that has got me out of (and into) all manner of trouble. The road to hell is paved with meritorious instincts. 

It is instinct that drives me to pursue the flashing dot of Jennifer Wilson's mobile phone. Feeling the familiar buzz of adrenaline in my veins and the memory of desert heat ghosting over my skin, I hail a taxi and track the serial killer. And it is instincts and muscle memory that makes everything else that follows flow as naturally as a stream picking its way down the mountainside; as if the path is ingrained in its very DNA.

I don't follow the blinking dot with the intention of engaging a serial killer. Whatever I might have done in the past, I am well aware that dealing justice in the form of bullets is no longer _my_ job. I do the sensible thing and get DI Lestrade on my mobile during the taxi ride. He tries to warn me off, not wanting a _‘civilian’_ put at risk, and I assure him I’ll stay far away from the entire scene. 

I fully intend to do just that... until he admits to being at least fifteen minutes out. That translates to closer to half an hour before they can effectively close off the area and sweep the place; plenty of time for the killer to slip their grasp. And no one can know how much longer Jennifer Wilson's battery will last or if the killer will soon get wise and dispose of our only means of tracking him. 

As fate has it, that means I have to get close enough to at least clap eyes on the murderer. I could be the only means of identifying him.

That's how I find myself facing the two identical buildings of Roland Kerr Further Education College, which is as precise as the GPS in Jennifer's Wilson's mobile can get me. 

The car park is empty aside from a single black taxi with its back door still open. The missing piece of the puzzle slides into place. 

_A cabbie._  
_Of course_ ; A man that can hunt in the middle of a crowd and that everyone will naturally trust. 

I only intend to locate and observe but then, as I approach the car to assure it is empty, I see a familiar phone tucked into the seam of the back seat; planted, like Jennifer Wilson had done with her phone. The second revelation hits me like a blow to the center of the chest. My heart drops into my stomach and twists into a dark, cold knot at that familiar rush of fear turning to fury. 

_Sherlock._

Reckless, irresponsible, egotistical Sherlock. He hadn't just dashed off in search of evidence, the mad bastard sauntered right into the serial killer’s grasp. 

It is like a switch flipped. The sharp edge of adrenaline coalesces into a fierce protectiveness.

_If he lays one fucking finger on Sherlock-_

Until this moment, standing in the empty car park with cold breath rushing out of me in billows like smoke from a freshly lit fire, I've managed to cling to some notion that I can shed the soldier within me and once again become a civilian. As absurd as that sounds, in the months since my return to England, I had been certain it was my only way forward. But, _just like that,_ I lose my grasp on the man I had been doing a terrible job of trying to become and fall back into that man I’d vowed to leave in the desert. 

Instinct is like a wild beast; it can be trained but not tamed. Once the reality of the situation hits me, there is only Sherlock's name drumming in my head like a prayer or incantation as I choose a building and go charging in for an urgent search. All I know is that I need to put myself between Sherlock and whatever the killer has planned for him.

When I at last burst through the door of a large classroom on the second story and see Sherlock facing the killer, I watched, frozen in horror, as Sherlock and the killer like puppeteer and marionette slowly lower pills to their mouths in mirror motion. My blood runs cold in my veins and my pounding heart feels like no more than a hollow death drum. 

_I’ve chose the wrong fucking building._

I am staring at them through a window, from a building over a hundred meters away. It is like being shot all over again. The helplessness and desperation that rip through me comes out as a scream. 

“SHERLOCK!” 

It all happens rather fast after that; instinct and muscle memory. My gun is in my hand so quickly and reflexively that I don't even remember reaching for it. 

_Aim. Breathe in. Hold. Exhale. Squeeze._

The gunshot rings out in the quiet of the building like a crack of thunder.

In that moment, between the firing of a gun and the piercing of the killer’s heart, everything is frozen, suspended, stretched taut until the very fabric of the universe is at its tensile limit. 

In the space between heartbeats everything that is usually too tangled and obscured to see clearly, unravels. All the twists and turns of my fractured path become as clear and sharp as if it has always been set in stone. I can see each choice that lead me here, not as free will, but rather as thinly veiled inevitability, pulling me towards this very moment with the unavoidable resolve of gravity pulling a falling object towards the earth. 

It is the kind of moment that can swallow a man; rip him apart. Just as violent as any explosion, but instead of scattering deadly shrapnel outward, it is vicious chaos turned inward like a star collapsing in on itself. An implosion where everything is pulled tighter and condensed until it contorts beneath the pressure and you become a singular hard, heavy point - empty of light.

In that moment, staring down the barrel of a smoking gun, with a man crumpling from the fatal bullet I put in him, all I can see is Sherlock... and... **I. Regret. _Nothing_.**

Sherlock’s body jerks and he drops his pill in shock. The bullet has sliced through the killer’s chest and smashed into the door behind him. 

So slow (agonizingly slow) I feel Sherlock becoming aware of my presence. I feel him like everything else in the universe has dropped away. I see him turning slowly towards me. 

He jumps and slides over the desk to run to the window and then the world lurches back into normal motion, and then it is accelerating, tumbling forward rapidly like someone hit the fast forward button.

I drop to the floor, roll on my side, click on the safety of my gun and tuck it into the back of my trousers. I swipe up the spent casing, roll away and up into a crouch. I keep low and to the shadows as I dash for the door. I retrace my steps out of the building, careful not run into the cleaners.

Out in the car park, I move calmly but with purpose. My mind is sharp and focused, a familiar cold determination taking me in its grasp. 

When one has just shot a man, most men's instinct would be to hide and do their best to go unseen. That's why I do just the opposite. 

I walk briskly to a nearby chain restaurant that is within view of the college. The young kid at the register, obviously a student just trying to pay the bills, seems half awake. He barely looks up from his books when I order a fountain drink. I am sure to make eye contact, smile kindly at him and let him keep the change as he rings me up and pushes a cup my way. I want to be somewhat memorable (if need arises for an alibi) but otherwise completely unremarkable. Disappearing in plain sight is a skill of mine that I'd thought I would never have to employ again.

I sit by the window, drink my drink and wait. The too bright fluorescent lights above me hum as I watch the police come and fill up to the car park in front of the college. I watch them tape off the area and canvas the building. I watch the tactical force leave and the ambulance and the coroner arrive. I wait patiently appearing, to any casual onlooker, perfectly calm and only mildly interested in the commotion. 

However, on the inside I am fighting an itch of irritation crawling under my skin. I want to check on Sherlock. I want to reassure myself he is ok. I keep running over the seconds before I shot the cabbie. While I still feel no remorse for the man who had killed so many and intended to take Sherlock as his next victim, something doesn't set right with me in my gut. Instincts that I've learned to trust tell me I'm missing something.

Eventually, Lestrade calls me and hastily fills me in on what happened. I feign surprise as he tells me about the serial killing cabbie who intended to make Sherlock his next victim by forcing him to choose between two pills; one poisoned and the other harmless.

“Sherlock? I thought he rushed off looking for evidence.” It isn't a complete lie. That _was_ what I thought up until I saw his phone in the back of the taxi. “Is he all right?”

“Yeah, well, you know how he is.”

“No, I really don't,” I say flatly as I scan the the jumble of police cars and ambulances clustered in front of the college. I try to pick out Sherlock's distinctive form moving along the blinking light. Unfortunately, it's too far to actually discern the figures milling about.

“He's fine. Usual sunny self.” Lestrade’s sigh over the line is long suffering and muffled, like he is scrubbing a hand over his face. I get the feeling he is mulling something over, deciding if he should put voice to a thought. 

“Here's the thing, John. Sherlock figured it all out like he always does and even talked a confession out of the killer but still… he intended to take a bloody poisoned pill. I mean, he claims he knew the one he chose wasn't the poisoned one, but he couldn't know _for sure._ He was goin’ to take it even though the killer didn’t have a way to force him to... Why would he do that, John?”

I close my eyes to Lestrade's words. I remember the way the cabbie's mouth was moving, speaking to Sherlock as his eyes glowed with the cruel joy of hurting another. Sherlock had been so certain that the cabbie was incapable of talking Mrs. Wilson into committing suicide. Yet, Sherlock was doing his bidding, lowering the pill towards his mouth. What could he have said to Sherlock? 

I recall the look in Sherlock's eyes; not dazed and afraid nor angry at being outwitted, not even the cool patience of a man biding his time until he can work out an escape - no, he looked resolute, determined almost detached. 

“I don't know.” The words are flat and don't reveal the turmoil roiling inside me. There's a cold ball in the pit of my stomach that is spreading into my chest, curling around my heart. 

I suspect I _do_ know why Sherlock would gamble with his life. I know too well. However, I am fairly certain it is a truth Lestrade can't even begin to fathom. Besides, I don't trust the man. Not yet.

“He’s off his rocker, that's why. Going off, bloody minded and gonna get himself killed for the sake of being clever, that's what he is!” Lestrade's voice is harsh with frustration. “So damn desperate to prove he is the smartest man around.”

“Yeah, maybe,” I concede with absolutely no conviction. There is a silence that holds a beat too long. I get the impression Lestrade is deciding something. 

“Right. Well… thanks for the tip on the location, John. Probably will need you to drop by NSY tomorrow for a statement.”

When Lestrade rings off, I can only sit there, my head bowed and my hands curled into fists on the linoleum table top. The image of Sherlock lowering that pill towards his mouth keeps replaying in my mind and the expression on his face chills me to the core. I recognize that expression now. It was the expression of man that had nothing to lose. Either he lived and escaped the clutches of a genius psychopath or he died and… _escaped._

How had I failed to recognize this? 

I have seen this before, in fellow soldiers. Back in Afghanistan there were men that when you looked in their eyes you knew they had seen too much; the walking wounded. Something essential in them had died and upon that festering corpse a poisonous weed had grown, feeding on grief, self-loathing and hopelessness until it bloomed into something wild and desperate.

 _‘Cas-Toms’_ is what they were quietly referred to in the field. Short for _‘casual Tommy Adkins’_ It was a term cribbed from the bloody Battle of Boxtel and the old tale that said that at the end of the battle the First Duke of Wellington turned to the brave Private Tommy Adkins and found him to be gravely wounded. Private Adkins reportedly said, _‘It's all right, sir. It's all in a day's work,’_ and then he laid down and died. 

It was what we termed those men that would recklessly throw themselves into harm's way under the guise of duty. It was disturbingly clear that these men were courting death at another’s hand; throwing themselves at bullets and bayonets in the hopes that the enemy would do what they could not. They were the casually suicidal; desperate to escape themselves and the unbearable suffering that was living with themselves. More than willing to allow the war to do what they, for whatever reason, could not.

It seems so obvious now; not just the reckless way he chose to go about courting his big MI6 target, but the little things like the way he isolated himself, the drugs, the excessive nicotine patches, the refusing to eat, the refusing to call police when he was planning to confront a criminal, the running into traffic. And now he had gotten into a car with a serial killer who he knew intended to kill him, let him take him to his own territory and had been willing to take the serial killer’s most likely poisoned pill. It is painfully clear that, while Sherlock might not be actively trying to take his own life, he has no qualms about letting another do the job for him.

I find it hard to breathe for a few moments, like I’ve swallowed hot coals and my throat is closing off around the damage. My eyes are watering and everything goes dark and liquid on the edges. I see Sherlock, laughing in the hallway of 221; such surprise tinting his expression as if he never expected to laugh again.

I realise I am gripping the table so hard that my knuckles are white. I take several deep breaths. Then I force myself to my feet, pitch my drink in the bin and walk out of the shop. I take a meandering path towards the two buildings I left a little over an hour earlier.

I edge around the crime scene tape until I at last spot Sherlock sitting in the back of an ambulance and my breath rushes out of me in relief. 

I start to move forward but I realize it's not my place to breach the police line to join him. I'm not sure what I am but I'm not Sherlock's doctor, not his comrade in arms, not even his flatmate, yet. 

Watching the medic hovering around Sherlock, poking and prodding at him while Sherlock becomes increasingly frustrated, I am aware that the urge to punch a medical professional who is just doing his job is out of place. I shouldn’t feel an almost uncontainable urge to shove the medic away and wrap my own fingers around Sherlock’s wrist; to feel the pulse thumping beneath his delicate skin, the warmth of his flesh, the stretch of his muscle over bone. 

_Alive. He's alive._

I stand as close as the tape will allow with my hands clasped behind my back, feeling a bit like an over eager squaddie, waiting for my chance to throw myself into a firefight. I keep my head low but run my eyes over him again and again, trying to discern any injury.

After a few moments, Lestrade approaches Sherlock and they start talking. Sherlock stands up and Lestrade takes out a notepad and begins jotting things down on it as Sherlock's face transforms into that distant expression he gets when putting all the pieces together. He is talking rapidly, eyes sweeping around as words spill from his lips and I get a sudden chill down my spine. I close my hands into fists behind my back suddenly understanding precisely what they are talking about. Sherlock is on a trail that leads straight to _me._

_Shit. I'm an idiot._

He is a genius and an MI6 agent, of course he’ll worked out that I shot the cabbie. 

His eyes meet mine across the parking lot and he freezes. His eyes narrow and there is confusion in his expression and a question in his eyes.

“You?”

Isn't this a turn up? Within a matter of a few hours we've gone from me holding his life in my hands (quite literally) to him holding mine in his (figuratively). 

He can decide to expose me to Lestrade and have me arrested right now. It would, after all, be an easy conviction; I have gunpowder burns on my hands and my unauthorized firearm is still tucked in my waistband. There's no reason to believe he won't do that. I might have initially been meant to fit into his mission, however, he has left me stranded and in the dark twice now - which would indicate I am expendable. 

I hold his stare for a moment, tip my head down slightly in acknowledgement of his question, then look away, up towards the building that he had been in. The choice is in his hands. I accept my fate.

Perhaps keeping a very dangerous and capable man from being an idiot is a stupid thing to throw my second chance away on, but I still can’t regret it. In fact, I feel a bit giddy. Sherlock Holmes didn't die today and in the balance book of all my acts (good and bad) I have to say that lands squarely in the ‘good’ column. It's a note worth going out on.

My eyes find Sherlock and Lestrade again when I hear their voices rising in argument. Sherlock is trying to walk away and Lestrade has crossed his arms over his chest and is looking as if he is about to put his foot down and demand Sherlock's cooperation. Sherlock makes an expression of contriteness, not unlike the one he made when Lestrade bullied him into compliance at the flat, and he says something quietly that makes the DI relax a little and nod. He tips his head in my direction in a dismissive way and then Sherlock is walking towards me. 

Walking may be the wrong word, it is more like prowling. His chin is tipped down and he has an expression of fierce determination in his eyes. Within a few strides he has tossed away the orange shock blanket and ducked under the police line to stand before me. Everything about him is coiled tight like the mainspring of a gun primed to fire. His eyes are burning with a focused intensity that could sear flesh from bone. 

I step forward instinctually and it is a measure of restraint that I keep my hands clasped behind my back rather than reaching out to grasp his wrist. It feels dangerous to hold his stare, so I glance around, idly noting who is paying attention to us and who is not. 

“Good shot.” It's the first words out of his mouth and so blunt that there can be no doubt that he is trying to get a genuine reaction out of me. His eyes are fixed on me as if he is trying to pry me open. He has found some loose thread and he intends to pull on it until I unravel before him. 

I keep my face blank as I glance up at him and then away.

“Yes. Yes, must have been, through that window.” I look up towards the building and calculate in my head that there are only half a dozen men in the world that could make a shot like that, over that distance and with a handgun. I clench my jaw and tip my chin up, mentally scorning myself for how I've shown my hand there. Now he’ll suspect there is something more about me. Even if he can't possibly gain access to _those_ records, he is unlikely to let go of this until he finds the truth. 

That makes things… _delicate._  
Complicated.

“Well, _you’d_ know.” 

I don't say a word. I clench and unclench my hands behind my back as I glance around at the nearby officers. Both Donovan, that casts a few disgusted glares Sherlock's way, and Lestrade, who always seems to have one eye on Sherlock when he is in proximity, are out of earshot and the rest of the force seems oblivious to us.

Still, I purse my lips and look up at him. There is something more in his face now

“Need to get the powder burns out of your fingers. I don’t suppose you’d serve time for this, but let’s avoid the court case.” I let my eyes travel over his face and try to press my lips together against a grin that wants to bloom there. He's trying to make me squirm now. It makes him a world class prick to hold my feet to the fire over something that saved his life… but I'm not sure what it makes me that, for some reason, I like him more for it. I lift an eyebrow and clear my throat, silently asking what he is on about. He stares down at me with piercing eyes.

“Are you alright?” It's such an abrupt change of tactics that I blink up at him and thrust my lips forward, considering it. 

Shouldn't I be the one asking him that since he was the one that had a shock blanket around him a few moments earlier?

“Yes, of course I’m all right.” I nod and continue to look around - anywhere but in his eyes. I can see things changing in those eyes as he recalibrates his understanding of me. 

“Well, you have just killed a man,” he presses. He studies me closely, analyzing and weighing my every expression.

“Yes, I…” I trail off. What do I say to that? What does he expect of me? Is he truly concerned that there might be emotional fall out or does he just want a confession, a confirmation that I am the one who killed the cabbie (perhaps for leverage)?

“That’s true, innit?” I offer a thin smile. “But he wasn’t a very nice man.” I don't regret it. It was the cabbie or Sherlock. A serial killer or a genius who, in spite of being a bit mad and decidedly dangerous, is the most brilliant thing that has happened to me in a long while. 

“No. No, he wasn’t really, was he?” Sherlock’s body language relaxes and a smile curls the corners of his lips. He puts his hands in his pockets and turns to lead us away from the scene.

“And frankly a bloody awful cabbie,” I add feeling that giddiness begin to course through me again. 

Sherlock chuckles, in that deep, rumbly tone that bounces around on my insides.

"That’s true. He was a bad cabbie. Should have seen the route he took us to get here!”

And suddenly I'm giggling… _at a crime scene._ And trying to excuse our behaviour from Donovan's glares while we stride away together. 

He quibbles with me about shooting the cabbie as casually as if I drank the last of the milk or didn't do the dishes and I think it might be the most absurdly wonderful thing I've experienced in a long time.

That warmth is extinguished by a sudden spike of cold at realizing that this moment almost didn't happen. I clear my throat and finally ask the question rattling in the back of my brain.

"You were gonna take that damned pill, weren’t you?” It comes out harsher than I intend, that unwelcome edge of protectiveness all too clear.

Sherlock stops and turns to face me again. I see his thoughts flicker across his face before he settles on a reaction.

“Course I wasn’t.” He bites his bottom lip and swings his body a little to the side, perhaps trying for charm as a distraction. “Biding my time. Knew you’d turn up.” It could almost pass as a bit of flirt and flattery; a subtle play at a damsel in distress stereotype; painting himself as helplessly awaiting his hero to sweep in and save the day. However, I'm getting wise to his tactics and far too genuinely disturbed by his behaviour to get knocked off track. 

“No you didn’t.” I fix him in a hard, unwavering stare. “It’s how you get your kicks, isn’t it? You risk your life to prove you’re clever.” I let the truth show in my eyes, my refusal to stand by and indulge his reckless disregard for his own life.

“Why would I do that?” His voice is low and he is searching my face - not in that cold, calculating and analytical way but in a softer and startlingly vulnerable way.

“Because you’re an idiot.” 

_And, yeah, I'm the fucking idiot that's going to try to protect you._

The smile is slow and so genuine I don't think he could hide it if he tried. There is something like the beginning of hope and trust starting to smolder in the darkest recesses of his eyes. I watch with awe, that crack in his facade widen just a little and something pure and warm spill out. After a moment he forces the smile down by pressing his lips together.

“Dinner?” And there's that young look of uncertainty so out of place in contrast to his usual bravado. I don't know exactly what he's asking me for but it feels like the start of something... Something probably dangerous.

“Starving,” I reply without hesitation and he turns to lead the way, talking idly about how to determine restaurant quality. 

It's all interrupted when Mr. Controller pulls up and steps out of his long, black car. 

I'm thinking we should perhaps duck off into an alley and avoid the need for a second shooting tonight but Sherlock charges right up to him with a bravado I'm beginning to suspect is going to be the bane of my existence. 

They start in on each other right away in a quick, tense volley of words. Meanwhile, I assess the level of threat. Mr. Controller doesn't seem like one to do his own dirty work, no doubt preferring to use his goons for any violence he wishes to inflict, therefore, I keep back, only half listening to their argument as I watch Mr. Controller's men fan out in the shadows around us. 

I am planning how I am going to get both of us out of there unscathed if Sherlock decides to have a go and Mr. Controller’s men rush in to defend him, when I hear Mr. Controller reference upsetting ‘Mummy.’

It's such a childish term, not one you typically hear grown men throwing about. I think I must be hearing things or there is some code I've missed but, as I turn my full attention on them, it's clear that the way they are arguing over who ‘upset Mummy’ isn't that of two arch-nemeses.

“No, no, wait. Mummy? Who’s Mummy?” I finally manage to interrupt.

“Mother – _our_ mother. This is my _brother,_ Mycroft.” I gape at Sherlock, thinking that he surely must be having me on but he is looking back at me as if their relationship must be obvious. I blink and might have even taken a step back, as I try to process this and re-contextualize all my experiences with Mr. Controller, _Mycroft,_ thus far. It doesn't quite make sense...

“So, he’s not …”

“Not what?” They both have turned their scrutiny on me now and Sherlock's expression has something of a warning in it. He gives the impression I should just shut my mouth before I put my foot in it, but my gut tells me there is something more to this man than an overprotective older brother mettling in his younger sibling’s life. 

“I dunno – criminal mastermind?” I've not forgotten Sherlock calling him ‘the most dangerous man I'd ever met’, which is saying a hell of a lot.

“Close enough.” Sherlock’s eyes burn with an underlying accusation as he glares at Mycroft.

“For goodness’ sake. I occupy a _minor_ position in the British government.” Mycroft sighs with exasperation. His eyes shift to me for only a second then harden on Sherlock and I get the feeling that whatever Sherlock says next, however honest or oblique it is, defines how Mycroft understands my relationship to Sherlock.

Sherlock radiates defiance and satisfaction as he says. “He _is_ the British government, when he’s not too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis.” 

By the darkening look on Mycroft's face I can tell this is very close to the truth and he is none too happy that Sherlock has chosen to bring me into that family secret as a confidant.

With that, Sherlock is turning and walking away. “Good evening, Mycroft. Try not to start a war before I get home. You know what it does for the traffic.”

I starts to follow him but reconsider. There are still a lot of things I don't understand. I turn back to Mycroft. For the briefest second I catch a raw expression of weary sadness and worry on his face as he leans to watch Sherlock stride away but as soon as he realizes I'm looking at him he snaps up straight, his cold mask of indifference sliding back into place.

“So, when you say you’re concerned about him, you actually _are_ concerned?” I look up at him with narrowed eyes recalling the ridiculously theatrical abduction and the threatening discussion in the warehouse. 

“Yes, of course.” 

“I mean, it actually is a childish feud?” I press because intentionally misleading me by painting himself as Sherlock's arch-nemesis hardly seems productive. If anything, I only have more questions about all hid innuendos and assumptions about Sherlock and I being in a relationship. 

“He’s always been so resentful. You can imagine the Christmas dinners.” Mycroft says still watching Sherlock who has slowed his pace and is trying not to look anxious that I am not following.

“Yeah ... no. God, no!” 

I begin to follow Sherlock once more but notice the analyst, who called herself Anthea, is standing there next to the car. Her eyes have been glued to her BlackBerry throughout the conversation.

Mycroft was so insistent in insinuating an intimate relationship between Sherlock and I that I take a dark delight in making another go at chatting up his assistant right in front of him as a blatant _'stuff your twisted agenda, I fuck who I want, thank-you-very-much’_ to him.

I honestly hadn't much hope of getting a positive response out of her (given her lack of interest in me earlier) but I give up the act quickly when she doesn't even seem to remember participating in my abduction a few hours prior. I may be a bit (ok, extremely) horny, but even if I managed to get her attention enough to charm her it's, she isn't the type to be the good shag I desperately need. 

“Yeah… Alright. Goodnight.” I give a meaningful glance to Mycroft before turning to follow Sherlock. If he understands both my spurning of his attempt to manipulate me and how unimpressed I am with his choice of assistant, he doesn't let it show.

“Good night, Doctor Watson.” 

He's using my title again but the way he does it this time… well, everything about the man puts the hairs on the back of my neck up. 

When I catch up to Sherlock his mood seems to have lightened, as if the encounter with his brother never happened. 

He tries bullshitting me about being able to predict fortune cookies and knowing where I was shot. I good-naturedly call him out on it and watch as his smile grows. It's absurdly transparent and I'm not sure why he's doing it until he bites his bottom lip and looks at me out of the corner of his eye.

_Oh, shit. Is he flirting with me? Again?_

“I never guess,” he insists.

“Yes, you do.” 

He seems to be trying to goad me… I think to myself that it's a bit like the flirting you do on the playground in primary school; pushing down your crush and pulling their hair for the thrill of their physical contact and attention. However, I quickly realize what a poor choice of analogy those childhood tangles are because now I'm walking along beside him with the mental image of holding him down and pulling his hair. 

_The bastard._

I look across to Sherlock, and he is smiling like he can see everything playing out in my head.

_I'm not going to do it, you prick. I've some self-control._

“What are you so happy about?” 

“Moriarty.” 

_That name._  
It knocks me off balance a bit and I'm instantly sobered. I force myself to remain casual.

“What’s Moriarty?” 

He tries to hide a smile behind the steepling of his fingers.

"I’ve absolutely no idea,” he lies. 

_‘Yes, you do,’_ is the logical retort since that's been the nature of our banter so far. 

Instead, I smile and walk along beside him, our shoulders bumping every few strides as he avidly launches into a dissertation on the best cooking techniques for authentic Chinese cuisine. 

Instinct tells me I should enjoy the peace while I can, this is just the beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things get a little steamy and less canon-compliant from here.

**Author's Note:**

>  **I'll be honest, it is quite lonely in the Sherlock fandom these days - so if you are reading this and enjoying it, keep a fellow Johnlocker going by hitting the 'kudos' or dropping me a comment. It means so much.**  
>     
> 
>
>> This was something rattling around in my head as a different take on what was going on beneath the surface of that first episode. Exact opposite of the soft John and soft Sherlock in the unaired pilot. This is BAMF ex-soldier John and BAMF MI6 Sherlock meeting, as they did in the series - but with all this BAMF happening in subtext.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [You'll Do](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7686025) by [Breath4Soul](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Breath4Soul/pseuds/Breath4Soul)




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